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1 1 







THE 


ALCHEMIST’S SECRET 


By 

ISABEL CECILIA ^ILLIAMS 


P. J. KENEDY & SONS 

NEW YORK PHILADELPHIA 




> 1 >' 




4 


J\ 


Copyright, 1910, 

BY 

P. J. KENEDY & SONS. 


Cr,!. A 36 1502 


RECAI^LING HOW THE DIVINE ALCHEMIST HAS, IN THE CRUCIBLE 
OF SUFFERING, PURIFIED HER SOUL FROM EARTHLY DROSS, AND 
CRAVING THAT SHE IN TURN, ONCE ADMITTED TO THE COMPRE- 
HENSION OF THE eternal SECRET, MAY LEAD THE AUTHOR TO A 
clearer understanding of the divine purpose, I DEDICATE 
THIS little book to 


/ibotber. 





CONTENTS 


PAGE 

The Passing of Tony ii 

The Tramp 27 

“He Hath put Down the Mighty” .... 42 

A Memorable Christmas Morning .... 58 

Nancy’s Taee 72 

Patsy 88 

Three Evenings in a Life 103 

The Eleventh Hour 116 

The Story of Julie Benoit 130 

Peter 150 

God’s Way 165 




THE PASSING OF TONY. 


“ Last mail in, Mis’ Bascomb? ” 

‘‘ Last mail’s in, Tony.” 

‘‘ Be there anything for me to-night? ” 

Widow Bascomb knew perfectly well there was not, 
but she reached for a small pile of letters in a pigeon- 
hole on her right and glanced over them rapidly. Her 
sour visage and rasping voice softened perceptibly as 
she smiled on the little old man before her. 

‘‘ Sorry, Tony, there’s nothing for you to-night.” 

Thank you. Mis’ Bascomb, p’raps it’ll come to- 
morrow,” and Tony turned away with a sigh and 
moved towards the door. 

A group of men were gathered around the stove, 
smoking and exchanging the gossip of the town. 
These greeted him kindly as he passed and he returned 
the greetings half absently. Before opening the door, 
the old man stopped to give his woolen muffler one 
more turn around his neck. 


II 


12 


THE ALCHEMIST’S SECRET. 


“ Purty cold snap, this,” he remarked to the com- 
pany in general. “ Looks as if we’d have snow ’fore 
mornin’ and a white Christmas after all. Good-night, 
Mis’ Bascomb; good-night, boys. A merry Christmas 
to you all ! ” and Tony stepped out into the frosty air 
of the December evening. 

He sighed again as he turned up over the hill to the 
left and started for home. It had been a long, cold 
walk down to the village, and it would be equally long 
and even colder on the way back, for a sharp wind was 
blowing directly in ,his face. It was a bad night for 
an old man like Tony to be abroad and he was almost 
sorry that he had ventured out. But there was his 
promise to Martha; it would never do to break that. 
Martha had always been of a more hopeful turn of 
mind than he, anyway. While she was still alive she 
had imparted to him the same spirit of trust and hope- 
fulness which shone in her steady gray eyes, but since 
God had taken Martha and left him all alone in the 
world of care and trouble, life had been hard indeed. 

He had promised Martha never to omit the daily 
visit to the post-office to inquire for the letter which, 
thus far, had failed to arrive. Martha had been so 


THE PASSING OF TONY. 


13 


sure that Sallie would write to them some day; Sallie, 
their handsome, wilful daughter, who had passed out 
of their lives nearly fifteen years before. He never 
blamed Sallie for wanting to leave them ; what could a 
tiny village like this offer to one as clever, as pretty, as 
ambitious as Sallie had been ? The neighbors had said 
many unkind things of Sallie but he heeded them not. 
They had called her vain, idle and silly; they said the 
folks at the big house had spoiled her and put notions 
into her head. They told him he did a foolish thing 
when he allowed her to go as maid to the lady of the 
big house over on the shores of the lake, and to go 
down to the city with the family when they moved 
home in the autumn. To tell the truth, poor Tony had 
little voice in the matter. Sallie, as usual, had taken 
affairs into her own hands and decided for herself. 

Nearly fifteen years ! It was a long, long time ; and 
never a word from the truant since the day she had left 
the village. Martha had waited, at first impatiently, 
then anxiously, and finally with a pathetic hopefulness 
that was more than half assumed. It was she who had 
insisted that Tony must go to the office every day, and 
during those long years, every evening, rain or shine. 


14 


THE ALCHEMIST’S SECRET. 


the same little scene was enacted in the village post- 
office. Every evening he had the same story of failure 
to report. 

No letter to-night, mother.” 

“Never mind, father; it’ll sure come to-morrow,” 
and Martha would sigh and clasp her hands in her lap. 

Presently, by the movement of her lips he would 
know she was praying for the absent one. He would 
lay aside his pipe, fetch his beads, and together they 
would say the Rosary, begging the blessed Mother of 
God to keep special watch over their child. She was 
the only one they had left, four little white stones 
marking the resting-place of the four little angels who 
had been permitted to remain with them for only such 
a very short space of time. 

Martha was sleeping now beside her babies and he 
was alone in the world; for who could tell what had 
become of Sallie ? She, too, might be at rest in God’s 
Acre. Sometimes he felt that she must be, or surely, 
surely, some word would have come from her. She 
must have known how anxiously they would watch for 
news of her, and certainly she would not be so heartless 
as to keep silence all this long time. 


THE PASSING OF TONY. ij 

Perhaps she had written and the letter failed to 
reach them^ Well, whatever the trouble was, Tony- 
had long since given up all hope of hearing from her, 
but, because of his promise to Martha, he still made his 
nightly visit to the post-office in the village. Had it 
not been for that promise he would certainly not take 
that long walk day after day, in summer heat and 
winter storms, for hope had long since died in Tony’s 
heart. At least, so he told himself, but somehow the 
walk home always seemed twice as long as the walk 
down, after hearing those depressing words No 
letter to-night, Tony.” 

Of late, the daily visit to the village had been almost 
more than the old man’s failing strength had been able 
to support. How often he wished he had not been 
obliged to sell Lassie. She was the last of his horses 
to go; the last, in fact, of all his possessions. There 
was nothing left to him now but the old house, and 
that was in such a state of dilapidation as to be really 
unfit for habitation. In the old days, his dogs and his 
horses were better housed than he was now ; in the old 
days, when his farm was one of the most prosperous 
in that section of the country. It was lonely indeed 


i6 the ALCHEMIST’S SECRET. 

since Martha went away, but he was glad she had not 
lived to see him brought to this pass. He was glad 
he had been able to surround her with comforts up to 
the very end, though to do so he had been obliged to 
sell timber-land, horses, cows, everything he owned, 
one after another. 

But Martha never knew; patient, suffering Martha, 
confined to her room by illness for many years before 
God had sent her release from pain. Thank God, 
Martha never knew; she had trouble enough without 
worrying over their poverty. Her room was always 
bright, always cheerful ; her favorite flowers blossomed 
in the window, a fire of logs burned cosily upon the 
hearth. The neighbors were kind in helping him to 
care for her, in bringing her little delicacies to tempt 
an invalid’s appetite ; fresh eggs, chickens, new lettuce, 
which Martha supposed had come from their own 
farm. 

It would never do to let her know that all their land 
was gone, all save that upon which the house stood and 
Martha’s flower garden which stretched from her 
windows to the road. How he had worked in that 
garden, cultivating the flowers she loved to see grow- 


THE PASSING OF TONY. 


17 


ing there. Sometimes he would lift her from the bed 
and place her in the large chair by the window, where 
she could watch him at his work; where she could 
watch, too, the road that led from the village. Often, 
he would glance up from his spading to meet her 
brave, cheery smile that sweetened all his labor ; oftener 
still, it would be to find her eyes fixed upon that long, 
dusty line that wound over hill and valley, in and out 
through orchards and corn fields, the road that led to 
the village and thence to the city beyond. He knew 
her mind had gone out into the wide, busy world, of 
which an occasional echo would reach them, gone out 
in a vain effort to guess at the whereabouts of the girl 
who had passed down that country road so many years 
ago never to return. To the very end, Martha had 
never ceased hoping, never ceased praying for the 
return of the wanderer, or at least for some word of 
assurance that all was well with her. 

By the time Tony reached the dismantled farmhouse 
the snow was falling thickly, silently, on all around. 

‘‘Twill be a bad storm,’’ thought Tony. “God 
pity any who are abroad this night.” 

Pushing open the kitchen door he entered quickly. 


i8 THE ALCHEMIST’S SECRET. 

divesting himself of cap, muffler, and ragged overcoat, 
and hanging them near the stove to dry. He lighted 
the lamp and threw some wood upon the fire which 
had burned low. Then, turning, he spied for the first 
time, a basket upon the table. A pleased smile over- 
spread his face. So they had not forgotten, after all ! 
How he and Martha had always watched for that 
Christmas basket from Cousin John’s folks over at the 
market town! It was not so much the value of the 
gift, for John was not over-plentifully blessed with the 
goods of this world and had a large family dependent 
upon him. It was more the fact of being remembered 
kindly, the knowledge that there was still some one who 
thought of them occasionally. 

He commenced unpacking the basket and arranging 
the contents upon the table: home-baked bread, pies, 
cakes; a package of tea, another of tobacco; oranges, 
nuts, candy; warm mittens and socks that John’s wife 
had knit for him. She was a good woman, John’s 
wife, kindhearted and thoughtful; she must have 
guessed how badly he needed socks and mittens now 
that Martha was no longer there to make them for him. 
He started for the cupboard, a pie in one hand, a loaf 


THE PASSING OF TONY. 


19 


of bread in the other, then stopped in the middle of 
the room and eyed them meditatively. What was it 
Martha used to say ? 

Never, never let Christmas pass without doing 
something for some one. No matter how poor one 
may be, Tony, they’re always others poorer still. If it 
be no more’n a loaf of bread, give something to the 
poor at Christmas time in the name of the little Babe 
that had none but the shepherds to do a hand’s turn 
for Him.” 

Each year he and Martha had found some one to 
whom they gave in the Christ-Child’s name, for the 
sake of the girl who was never absent from their 
thoughts by day or by night. Even last year, as poor as 
he was, he had met with one more needy still and sent 
him on his way rejoicing — a poor lad, out of work, out 
of money, tramping from city to city in search of 
employment. They had taken him in for Sallie’s sake, 
given him food and shelter, and when the boy left the 
farm a silver dollar, nearly the last of Tony’s small 
store, was pressed into his hand. The dollar had been 
returned, for at the next town the object of Tony’s 
charity had found steady work. That was last year. 


20 


THE ALCHEMIST’S SECRET. 


This Christmas he was not doing a thing for any one; 
he had forgotten completely, probably because Martha 
was not there to remind him. 

He placed the bread and the pie back upon the table 
and stood looking at them long and earnestly. He 
knew of one who needed them far more than he did, 
a poor widow over in the hollow,’’ whose five small 
children, sickly, starved little creatures, were more than 
half the time crying with cold and hunger. He opened 
the package of tobacco, filled his pipe and sat down 
in his chair by the stove to smoke and think. 

How those poor children would enjoy the bread and 
pies and cakes which John’s wife had sent him! Poor 
little things, they seldom, if ever, tasted fare like that. 
He really did not need them ; he managed to get along 
pretty well and the neighbors were all good to him; 
especially since Martha died. He would really be glad 
to give those children something, but he was so tired, 
so tired, and it was quite a walk over to the hollow. 

Then, the storm ! How the wind shrieked and tore 
around the house, and how steadily the snow beat 
against the window panes'! It was warm and com- 
fortable there by the fire, but outside . And he 


THE PASSING OF TONY. 


21 


was unusually tired to-night; that walk to the village 
had been almost too much for him. Besides, he must 
be up in time for first Mass in the morning; he had 
never missed first Mass and Holy Communion on 
Christmas since the day he and Martha were married. 
Year after year, they had knelt side by side at God’s 
altar; for many years Sallie had knelt there with him; 
now he was all alone but he meant to continue the 
the custom for Martha’s sake. 

How the storm did rage, to be sure; but those poor 
children, those poor little children! Perhaps some- 
where in the wide world his Sallie was in need of help 
and comfort this night and those who might give it to 
her were too tired or too lazy. He guessed that was 
the trouble, he was growing lazy in his old age. Well, 
he would do this for Sallie ; it would be one more little 
sacrifice added to the many which he and Martha had 
offered for their wandering child, that God might keep 
guard over her wherever she might be. Yes, he would 
do it for Sallie’s sake and to please Martha. From 
Heaven she was watching him and would know that 
to please her and for the sake of their child he was 
going to brave the storm once more and carry a little 


22 


THE ALCHEMIST’S SECRET. 


Christmas happiness to those poor children over in the 
hollow. The walk over and back again would not hurt 
him ; he was growing old and lazy, that was all. 

But first he must light the lamp. Dear, dear, he was 
growing forgetful as well as lazy. He had nearly 
forgotten to light Sallie’s lamp. What would Martha 
say to that ? Every night as soon as dusk had fallen, 
Martha had insisted upon placing a lamp in the window 
of what had once been Sallie^s room. If the child 
came back unexpectedly, she would see the light shining 
from her window and know they were waiting and 
watching for her. The room itself was as she had left 
it years ago, her clothes still hanging in the closet, her 
slippers laid ready for the tired feet to slip into them, 
the fire on the hearth all prepared against the day of 
her home-coming, and by night the lamp in the window 
shining a welcome that could be seen afar down the 
road that led from the village. He must light Sallie’s 
lamp, then off once more into the storm and darkness 
to carry a bit of Christmas cheer to the little home in 
the hollow. 

Nearly an hour later, a thoroughly worn-out but 
very happy old man sat by the stove in the farmhouse 


THE PASSING OF TONY. 


23 


kitchen. He was too tired even to light his pipe; he 
simply sat there and tried to rest. It had been a hard 
fight against the storm, but how pleased those poor 
little children were! Well, he had done it for Sallie, 
just one more little sacrifice for Sallie who was some- 
where out there in the cold, weary world, far from 
the home of her childhood, far from the ones who 
loved her best. 

Sallie gone ? Sallie far away in the storm and dark- 
ness ? Why no, of course not. Sallie was only a little 
child sleeping quietly in her own little room. See, the 
door was ajar and a ray of light from the lamp in 
Sallie’s room was streaming across the kitchen floor. 
He must go in and extinguish the light before it 
awakened the sleeping child. Why had Martha left 
the lamp burning? Surely she must know it would 
disturb the child. Well, as soon as he was rested he 
would go and put it out. 

How tired, how tired he did feel! He’d worked 
pretty hard to-day, and the sun had been hot, so hot. 
Well, never mind, the hay was all cut now, a few 
more days like this and his barn would be filled with 
the finest hay in the country. A few more years like 


24 


THE ALCHEMIST’S SECRET. 


this one and he would be the richest farmer hereabouts. 
For himself, he did not care, and Martha had simple 
tastes like his own. But there was Sallie. She was 
only a wee tot now but she would be a woman some 
day. They must give Sallie all the advantages they 
had missed ; they must lay by money against the time 
when Sallie would be a grown up woman and want 
things like other girls of her age. 

What ailed him, anyway, that a day’s work in the 
hay field should make him feel like this, so tired, so 
very tired ? 

He felt a little better now; he would rest a few 
moments more, then be off home to supper and to 
Martha and Sallie. But who was that calling to him ? 
Why, Martha, to be sure, standing there by the five- 
barred gate. She had come to meet him with their 
baby in her arms. That was strange ; it was not Sallie, 
it was their first-born, the boy with his mother’s eyes 
who had blessed their home for only a few short 
months and then been laid to rest in the churchyard on 
the hill. The other little tots were with her, three of 
them, clinging closely to her skirts. They were all 
smiling and holding out their hands to him in invita- 


THE PASSING OF TONY. 


25 


tion. But Sallie, where was Sallie ? Once more 
Martha called his name. At the sound of her voice 
all the wonder, all the worriment, fled from Tony’s 
heart. 

Coming, Mother, coming,” he called happily, and 
the smile upon Martha’s tace was reflected on his own. 

Christmas morning dawned bright and clear; the 
storm had passed in the night. Something else had 
passed, too — the soul of an aged farmer. It was not 
until the next day they found him, still sitting in the 
lounging chair by the stove in which only a small heap 
of charred ashes remained. They looked upon that 
serenely smiling face, then from one to another, and 
sadly shook their heads. One of their number stepped 
forward and with trembling fingers placed in the stiff, 
cold hand of old Tony, the letter for which he had 
watched through long and weary years, the letter that 
had come too late. 

Too late? Nay, not so. Those standing by could 
not see, as Tony saw, the woman who lay dying in the 
great hospital down in the city. They could not see, 
as Tony saw, the last rites of the Church administered, 
the Sisters of Charity bending near praying, praying 


26 


THE ALCHEMISTS SECRET. 


for that soul about to depart upon its last long journey. 
They could not hear, as Tony heard, the pale lips speak- 
ing their final words : 

** You wrote the letter. Sister? ” 

I wrote the letter, dear. It must have reached 
them by now.” 

“ You told them I was dying? You asked them to 
forgive ? ” 

“ I told then all and Tm sure they have forgiven 
already.” i 

Dear father and mother I God bless them both 1 
God have mercy upon me ! ” 

They could not know, but Tony knew. Perhaps 
that explained the smile on Tony’s face, the smile they 
could not comprehend. 


THE TRAMP. 


‘‘ A PRETTY tough looking character, that ! But I 
suppose you see a great many just such specimens in 
this quaint little town of yours.^^ 

Father Antony’s back was turned to the speaker and 
for several moments he remained standing at the top of 
the veranda steps, following with his eyes the slouching 
figure that had just passed through the gate and was 
tramping slowly along the county road. Then, with 
a sigh he returned to his seat and, running his fingers 
through his hair, remarked half absently : 

“ Poor fellow, he looked almost exhausted. I tried 
to persuade him to remain here a little longer and rest 
for a spell. What a life theirs is ! Some of them, of 

course, really enjoy it, but others^ . Ah, me! those 

poor others. And somehow that tramp who has just 
left us seems to me to belong to the latter class rather 

than to the former. But pardon me. Father, what 
27 


28 


THE ALCHEMIST’S SECRET. 


was it you were just saying? I was so interested in 
my tramp that I failed to catch your words.” 

I merely remarked,” returned the younger priest, 
smiling, that you must see a great many of these 
nomadic individuals in this quaint little town of yours. 
I have been here but a week and that is the sixth 
villainous looking rascal who has presented himself 
and demanded something to eat.” 

‘‘ Yes, a large number of tramps pass through here 
in the course of a year, for we are on the direct road 
between the two largest cities of the State. Many of 
them are, as you say, villainous looking, but I do not 
think they are half as bad as they look. In fact, in 
some cases, I have found them to be pretty good fellows 
once you had passed the rough exterior and reached 
the real man underneath.” 

“ You must have had some very interesting ex- 
periences with these tramps of yours; have you not, 
Father ? ” asked the younger man curiously. “ I wish 
you would tell me some of them.” 

Father Anthony shifted his chair so as to command 
a better view of the road. He watched in meditative 
silence until the tramp had become a mere blot upon 


THE TRAMP. 


29 


the whiteness of the dusty road and had finally disap- 
peared over the brow of a distant hill. Then he spoke 
in tones of reminiscence : 

“ It was on just such a May evening as this, clear 
and beautiful only much cooler, that I sat in this very 
chair and watched the road as I am doing now. But 
on that evening I watched anxiously, divided between 
hopes and fears, for the figure that was so long in 
coming; I was watching for Jim, the tramp. Jim had 
promised faithfully, but with some men promises are 
made only to be broken. I began to fear that Jim was 
one of these. Still I prayed fervently and continued 
to hope, though the twilight deepened and brought 
no sign of my vagrant. 

My meeting with Jim had come about in this way. 
For some time I had been playing a game of hide and 
seek with a certain backsliding member of my con- 
gregation. The hiding was all on his side, the seeking 
on mine. Try as I would I could not seem to obtain an 
interview with him. He was never at home when I 
called; so I decided that my only chance of coming to 
close quarters with the enemy was to surprise him at 
his work. That afternoon I bad gone to the quarries 


30 


THE ALCHEMIST’S SECRET. 


and found my man superintending the gang in 
charge of the stone-crusher. He certainly was sur- 
prised and not very pleased to see me, and all I 
could obtain from him after more than an hour 
of argument and pleading was a promise that 
* he would think about it.’ The ‘ it ’ referred to the 
making of his Easter duty, the time for which had 
nearly expired. Bitterly disappointed, and with a 
feeling of utter defeat, I was turning away when my 
steps were arrested by a not unpleasant voice : 

* Why don’t you try your hand on me. Father? 
I’m a black enough sheep to keep you busy for a few 
moments anyway.’ 

I wheeled around and found myself confronted by 
a short, thick-set man of most unattractive appearance, 
a man whom you would scarce choose as a companion 
along a lonely road at night. At a glance I sized up 
my new acquaintance : a typical tramp who had taken 
a job at stoking the engine to vary the monotony of 
the road. He was no professional ‘ hobo,’ but belonged 
to that class who take to tramping from necessity 
rather than from choice — a too great love for the 
bottle being the necessity. They find an odd job here 


THE TRAMP. 


31 


and there, hold it until pay day, squander the month's 
earnings in the nearest saloon, then on again in search 
of a job somewhere else. 

‘‘ I am well acquainted with these men, but there 
was something about the rough looking specimen 
before me, a certain something in his manner, in his 
speech, in the twinkle of his eyes, which set him apart 
from the rest of his class. A grizzled beard of iron 
grey concealed the lower half of his face, and the right 
temple and cheek were disfigured by a scar which gave 
the countenance a decidedly sinister appearance. In 
spite of that I felt that the man before me had at one 
time been accustomed to a very different life from the 
one he was leading now. 

‘‘ ‘ Why don't you try your hand on me. Father? ’ he 
repeated, and the smile accompanying the words made 
the ugly face almost pleasing. 

‘‘ There was not time for a lengthy conversation, the 
engine requiring constant attention, but the tramp 
volunteered the information that he answered to the 
name of Jim, and promised to report at the rectory in 
the evening and give me a chance to try my hand on 
him. 


32 


THE ALCHEMIST’S SECRET. 


In the evening, then, I sat and waited, half fearing 
that he had changed his mind and would not come. 
But just as the first pale stars began to twinkle in the 
sky Jim pushed open the gate and I went to meet him 
with both hands extended in warmest welcome. He 
gave me his left hand, and for the first time I noticed 
that the right was gone — amputated at the wrist. Jim 
saw my glance of shocked pity and smiled as he said 
calmly : 

‘ It was the drink did it. Father — ^the hand and 
this scar on my face. I’d been hitting it up pretty 
lively and didn’t realize where I was walking. The 
track wasn’t wide enough for me and the train. One 
of us had to get off, and as the engine was the stronger 
of the two — well, you see the result before you.’ 

‘‘‘How long have you been tramping, Jim?’ I ■ 
asked. 

“ ‘ More years than I care to think of now, Father. 
The drink again. In fact, it’s been the drink at every 
turn; it’s ruined my life, made a complete fool of me. 
But let’s get down to business; only, you’ll have to 
help me out, it’s so long since I went to confession I’ve 
almost forgotten how.’^ 


THE TRAMP. 


33 


‘ Come into the house or the confessional in the 
church/ I suggested. 

** * The house or the confessional in the church ? 
No, thank you, Father. My little friends up yonder, 
those pretty, sparkling stars, my only companions on 
many a lonely night, have been the witnesses of my 
degradation. Let them now behold my restoration to 
the favor of the God whom Tve offended.' 

“ Strange words, those, from a tramp, and I 
marveled at them. Without more ado we ‘ got down 
to business,’ and it was nearly two hours later when 
we parted at the gate. In answer to a question of 
mine, Jim replied whimsically : 

“ ‘ Where do I live while I’m working on this job? 
Well, you see. Father, I am rather particular with 
regard to my lodgings, and as there is nothing around 
here that quite suits me, I just crawl under the engine 
and sleep there.’ 

‘‘ ‘ But when it rains, Jim? ’ 

“ ‘ Well, it just rains, that’s all.’ 

The next morning Jim attended my Mass and 
received Holy Communion, and every morning after 
that when I entered the church to offer up the Holy 


'34 


THE ALCHEMISTS SECRET. 


Sacrifice the first person I would see would be my one- 
armed tramp kneeling in a far corner, his rosary slip- 
ping through his fingers. The rosary had belonged to 
his mother, and during all his years of tramping he had 
guarded it as his most precious treasure. He had 
worn it in a little chamois bag suspended from a string 
around his neck, but had not used it in many, many 
years. He came regularly one evening in each week 
to make his confession and to have a little chat with me. 
As the summer progressed I wondered more and more 
at this strange new acquaintance of mine; this rough 
looking tramp with the manners of a gentleman and the 
speech, except for a few lapses in the vernacular of 
the road, of a man of considerable education. The 
oddest thing of all was the feeling I had that some- 
where, at some time, Jim and I had met before. Little 
tricks of voice and expression would seem strangely 
familiar. 

‘‘ The summer gradualy faded into autumn, and 
one evening in late September when I stood at the 
gate to say good-night to my tramp, he remarked 
sadly : 

‘ This is good-by as well as good-night. Father. - 


THE TRAMP. 


35 


I have given up my work here and am off early in the 
morning.’ 

‘‘ ‘ Not the road again ! ’ I cried, and the next second 
would have given anything to recall the thoughtless 
words. A pained look crossed Jim’s face, but he 
answered quietly: 

“ ‘ No, Father, not the road. Never again shall I 
return to that life. I have saved my wages this sum- 
mer and am going back into the world to begin life all 
over again. This time, with God’s help, I shall not 
make such a muddle of it as I did before.’ 

“ The next day he was gone, and many a night as I 
sat over my study-fire reading or trying to work up 
my sermon for Sunday, my thoughts would stray from 
the subject in hand and wander out into the world in 
search of my friend the tramp. I would listen to the 
wintry blasts whistling down my chimney and wonder 
where Jim was, and wonder still more at his complete 
silence. Surely he might let me know if all were well 
with him. Had he persevered? Or had he, perhaps, 
lapsed into his former ways, and was he, even now, 
tramping the highways and byways ? 

“ Winter passed and spring came ; still no news of 


36 THE ALCHEMIST’S SECRET. 


Jim. Another summer, another fall, another winter. 
Silence, absolute silence on the part of my tramp. 
Then, one evening in May, exactly two years from the 
day when I first met him, Jim stood before me once 
again. I recognized him by the missing right hand 
and the scar on the temple. Aside from those two 
points and the old merry twinkle in his eye he bore 
absolutely no resemblance to my tramp of two years 
ago. The face was smooth shaven, the bloat, caused 
by years of drinking, had all disappeared, and he looked 
at least ten years younger than my former friend. His 
ragged tramp’s garb had been replaced by neat gar- 
ments such as a fairly prosperous business man might 
wear. His whole appearance seemed to indicate that 
Jim had done well in the world to which he had 
returned. Sitting in the garden, he told me all 
about it. 

“ Yes, he had done well. It had been hard at first, 
oh ! very hard. There had been a time when, his sav- 
ings all gone and no employment in sight, he had faced 
actual starvation. But the darkest hour comes before 
dawn, and that had been Jim’s darkest hour. From 
then on things began to mend. He had obtained a 


THE TRAMP. 


37 


good situation and was happy in it. He had not 
written because for long, for so very long, he had 
no news but bad news to send. There was nothing 
but ill-luck and misfortune to report, and he waited 
from day to day hoping things would brighten. Then, 
when the unexpected stroke of good luck came, he 
decided to wait yet a little longer until he could bring 
me the good news in person. 

“ All the time he was talking I watched his face 
carefully. That puzzling, baffling resemblance to some 
one whom I had known was stronger than ever since 
the beard which concealed so much of his face had been 
removed. I became more and more convinced that 
we had met before, but when and where? I racked 
my memory, but the name, the personality I wanted, 
eluded my grasp. Something of my thoughts must 
have shown in my face, for when Jim finished his 
narrative he threw back his head, laughing merrily at 
my very evident perplexity. 

** * It is really too bad to keep you guessing any 
longer, Father,’ he said. ‘ Let me help you to re- 
member when and where we met before. Listen and 
I will tell you a little story. 


38 the ALCHEMIST’S SECRET. 


“ * It is Commencement day at a certain large college 
in a certain city which we need not name. The 
graduating class have met together for the last time in 
their own particular class-room. The saintly, white- 
haired priest who has watched their progress step by 
step from the day they first entered college stands 
before them. He speaks words to them which brings 
tears to those young eyes, accustomed, as a rule, to 
looking only on the merry side of life. He speaks 
words of true affection, of gentle admonition and 
fatherly advice. He gives to each youth a tiny silver 
medal of our Blessed Mother, and exacts from each 
one a promise that he will faithfully carry that little 
medal until the day of his death.’ 

“ As Jim spoke he took from an inner pocket a small 
medal of our Lady and laid it on the palm of his 
hand. I drew forth my rosary, and there, beside the 
crucifix, hung a medal the counterpart of Jim’s. He 
smiled as he continued : 

‘‘ ‘ I see you remember now. Father, but listen just 
a little longer for my story is not finished. From that 
class-room those lads went forth into the busy world 
of men and of affairs. They went their separate ways, 


THE TRAMP. 


39 


each one to fill that position in life to which he felt 
himself called, most of them fired by ambition and con- 
fident of success. 

‘ One of those young men left the college that 
night with his heart as buoyant and hopeful as any of 
his companions. Almost from the first, however, 
things seemed to go wrong with him. He was an 
orphan, father and mother having died a few years 
before. Perhaps if either parent had been at hand 
to warn him of the dangers into which he was drifting, 
his life might have been different. Perhaps, even if 
some one had warned him, the warning would have 
passed unheeded. He tried law for a time and did not 
like it; tried business and gave that up; drifted from 
one thing to another, always drifting lower, lower, 
until at last he found himself an outcast and a 
wanderer. For some years he lived the life of a 
vagrant. If at times a longing to return to better 
ways, a longing for all that might have been, stirred 
faintly within him, the feeling was quickly drowned 
by recourse to the one thing to which he remained 
faithful, the enemy that had brought about his ruin, 
drink. 


40 


THE ALCHEMIST’S SECRET. 


‘‘ ‘ During his wanderings he picked up odd jobs 
here and there, and one day he is taken on by the boss 
of the stone-crusher over there in those quarries of 
yours. They were badly in need of some one to stoke 
the engine, and even a rough looking tramp was wel- 
come. That same day there comes to the place a 
certain priest who is searching for one of the stray 
sheep from his own fold. The tramp recognizes the 
priest at once, and the sight of that familiar face brings 
back the old, happy days of his innocent boyhood. The 
priest commences to speak ; he pleads, he reasons with 
the boss of the stone-crusher. In spirit the tramp is 
once more back in the college chapel listening to the 
saintly old man who had been his guide and confidant 
in youth, and who had long since passed to his reward. 
The vague, discontented longing for better things rises 
up in full strength. After all, why not? The look 
on the priest’s face as he turns away decides him. That 
look of bitter disappointment, of real grief, on the face 
of his old college friend is more than the tramp can 
stand. He speaks, the priest turns to him, and — well, 
the rest of the story you know for yourself. Father. 
That is, the rest as far as any mortal can relate it. 


THE TRAMP. 


41 


The end is not yet, but I trust that end will be one 
which will satisfy even you.’ ” 

Silence reigned for several moments, the fragrant 
silence of a warm May night. And then : 

“ I am sure it will, I am sure it will,’ mused Father 
Anthony, smiling confidently. I have no fear as to 
what the end will be for Jim, my one-armed tramp. 

“ But the other man. Father, the boss of the stone- 
crusher ? What has become of him ? ” 

“ Oh ! that little game of hide and seek is still going 
on, but I have not lost hope even yet. God’s mills 
grind slowly and we must abide His own good time, 
His own good time.” 


‘‘ HE HATH PUT DOWN THE MIGHTYJ 


MagiUcat anima mea Dominum/^ The exquisite 
voice rose and fell daintily on the incense-laden air. 

Et exultavit spiritus mens in Deo salutari meo/* 
responded the chorus in triumphant harmony. 

It was a Sunday evening in early June and the hour 
for Vesper service at Saint Zita’s convent. Reverend 
Mother mounted the staircase leading to the chapel, 
then paused, with her hand upon the door, to listen 
as the wonderful soprano again took up the refrain : 

Quia respexit humilitatem ancillae suae/^ 

“ Poor child, poor child,” whispered Reverend 
Mother, opening the door and gliding noiselessly to her 
stall, where she knelt with bowed head and prayed as 
she had never prayed before ; prayed in fear and trem- 
bling for the future of the girl whose voice had earned 
for her the title of “ the nightingale of Saint Zita’s.” 
Reverend Mother had always dreaded the day when 

she must part with this dearly loved child who had 
42 


HE HATH PUT DOWN THE MIGHTY. 43 


been entrusted to her care some ten years before. A 
gentleman had come to Saint Zita’s bringing with him 
his little daughter of six. A man of grave, even stern 
aspect, there was yet a look in his eyes which filled the 
nun’s heart with a great pity; it was the look of one 
who had suffered deeply and in silence. He was a 
man of few words and his errand was quickly ex- 
plained. He was obliged to be absent from home the 
greater part of the time and could not attend to the 
education of his little girl as he would like to do. His 
wife was not of our faith and was also too busily 
occupied to look after the child. He did not mention 
that her occupation was that of society butterfly, who 
sacrificed homelife, husband and child in the pursuit of 
pleasure. Would Reverend Mother kindly undertake 
the charge of his little Nita’s education, spiritual as 
well as intellectual? Would she be to the child what 
father and mother ought to be and could not? 

Reverend Mother had gladly undertaken the task, 
and since then Nita had never been separated from her 
even for a day. During the vacations, when other 
pupils scattered far and wide to their various homes, 
Nita had remained at the convent, roaming at: 


44 


THE ALCHEMIST’S SECRET. 


will through the deserted class-room and beautiful 
grounds. She was the pet and darling of the entire 
community. In the long summer afternoons when the 
nuns carried their sewing out to the orchard behind 
the house, or to the pine grove on the hill, where one 
could obtain such a lovely view of the river, Nita 
would flit about amongst them like a veritable wood- 
land fairy. Her snatches of song and merry laughter 
made sylvan echoes ring and brought smiles to the 
faces of the simple women who watched her with 
loving sympathetic glances. 

Many a time, especially of late, had Reverend 
Mother looked at her with anxious foreboding in her 
eyes. What would the future hold for this child of 
hers, endowed as she was with singular beauty and a 
wonderful voice? She was a docile child, sunny and 
sweet-tempered, and that very pliancy of nature was 
what caused the nun many a moment of uneasiness. 
What would become of her once she had left the 
shelter of her convent home and was exposed to the 
influence of the light-hearted, merry, soulless mother 
from whom she had inherited her beauty; the mother 
whose only god was pleasure, whose one ambition was 


HE HATH PUT DOWN THE MIGHTY. 45 


to be the best dressed, the most popular, the most 
envied woman in her set. The only hope lay in keep- 
ing Nita at the convent as long as possible, or at least 
until her character had developed sufficiently to enable 
her to enter her mother^s world and hold her own 
against it. Still, Reverend Mother dreaded the day 
when she must part with her child, and now that the 
parting had come so unexpectedly, so much sooner 
than she had anticipated, it was doubly hard to 
bear. 

The nun knelt in the chapel that June evening and 
prayed with all her heart, not only for the future of 
the girl whose voice filled the air with such exquisite 
melody, but also for help to break to that girl as gently 
as possible the sad news awaiting her. Word had 
just arrived that her father lay dangerously ill and Nita 
must hasten to his bedside if she wished to see him 
once more in this world. The carriage was waiting 
and Nita must go at once. 

The Benediction over and the lights extinguished, 
all save the tiny radiance of the Sanctuary lamp, with 
a final appealing glance towards the Tabernacle door. 
Reverend Mother left the chapel, descended to her 


46 


THE ALCHEMIST’S SECRET. 


office, where she was accustomed to interview the pupils 
ech in turn, and summoned Nita to her presence. 

A little later she stood at the foot of the convent steps 
and watched the carriage drive away with a weeping, 
forlorn little figure huddled in one corner, while the 
good lay-sister who accompanied her vainly essayed 
words of cheer and consolation. She watched with 
tear-dimmed eyes as the carriage rolled rapidly down 
the avenue and out through the gate, then entered the 
house and repaired at once to her refuge in all trials 
and afflictions that might beset her way, the convent 
chapel. There, with her eyes on the little golden door 
behind which the dearest and best of Comforters is 
always waiting for the sorrowful, the sin-laden, the 
weary-hearted, to come to Him, she found consolation 
and peace. Her child was in the Lord’s hands and 
surely in those hands she would be safe. 

Many times have the June roses blossomed and fallen 
since the night on which Reverend Mother stood in the 
convent doorway and watched the departure of the 
carriage which was bearing her child away from her 
out into the world of suffering and sin. Once more, 
the June sunshine is flooding the land and the air is 


HE HATH PUT DOWN THE MIGHTY. 47 


heavy with the odor of June blossoms. In a small 
town in the south of France, a young woman, gowned 
in deepest mourning, sits by her own casement and 
gazes gloomily, despairingly, out into the gathering 
twilight. On a table at her side is a small pile of 
money which she has counted over and over again in 
the vain hope that she may have made a mistake and 
that, perhaps, after all, the amount is not quite so small 
as she has made it out to be. That little pile of money 
represents her entire worldly wealth, and when it is 
gone what is to become of her? Work? She glances 
at the soft, delicate hands resting idly in her lap. 
Their whiteness is dazzling as compared with the black 
of her gown, and she smiles rather bitterly. What 
work could hands like those perform? They are 
beautiful certainly, but useless, absolutely useless, just 
as she herself is useless. There is not one thing by 
which she can earn her daily bread, and earn it she 
must or starve. To what a pass has she come; she, 
who at one time had wealth at her command and the 
world at her feet. 

As she sits there, broken in spirit, broken in health, 
a middle-aged woman in appearance, while in years not 


48 


THE ALCHEMIST’S SECRET. 


much beyond her first youth, she recalls those triumphs 
of her past. Her success had been marvelous though 
short-lived. Her mind wanders back to the days when 
she was the pet and idol of musical Europe. The mere 
announcement that she was to sing would pack the 
largest opera house to the very doors. Ah ! those days 
of triumph, when she had passed from one success to 
another, when the mighty ones of the earth were 
pleased to do her honor, when the incense of praise 
and flattery was burned day and night upon the shrine 
of her greatness. Her mother was with her then, the 
beautiful, fairylike little mother for whom her love 
had been almost worship. Her voice had been with 
her, too, that voice at which two continents had 
marveled. Both are gone now, the beautiful mother, 
the wonderful voice; gone, gone forever, and she is 
alone in the world, alone and poor and friendless. 

She recalls the first and only time when she appeared 
in public in America, her native land. She did not 
want to sing that night, for her mother, who had been 
slightly ailing for some time, seemed very much worse. 
She had decided not to appear at all, but had finally 
yielded to the mother’s entreaties and driven to the 


HE HATH PUT DOWN THE MIGHTY. 49 


opera house. What an ovation she had received that 
night! She could see it all again: the lights, the 
flowers, the music, the vast audience simply frantic 
with delight at her performance. At the close she had 
been recalled again and again, and those enthusiastic 
plaudits still rang in her ears. How little she had 
dreamed as she smiled and bowed her thanks, and how 
little those who watched her had dreamed that never 
again was that wonderful voice to be heard by mortal 
ears, that voice which had stirred millions of hearts 
and made its owner one of the foremost singers of her 
day. 

She had driven home from that scene of triumph to 
find that her mother’s condition had become alarmingly 
worse in the few hours of her absence, and before 
morning she had stood beside a deathbed the recollec- 
tion of which makes her shudder even now. The 
poor, pretty butterfly, her short summer over, fought 
frantically but vainly against the annihilation which 
was coming upon her. The memory of her early 
training at Saint Zita’s, the memory too of that other 
death-scene she had witnessed when her father had 
passed away so calmly, so peacefully, with his eyes 


50 


THE ALCHEMISTS SECRET. 


upon the crucifix and the words of God’s minister 
ringing in his ears, came to the girl and she had 
begged to be allowed to send for a priest. Her mother 
had never professed any belief, but it seemed terrible 
to Nita to have her die without even a prayer to help 
her in that last awful moment. Entreaties were of no 
avail. The idea of a priest, of religion, of even a final 
prayer, was laughed to scorn. Besides, she was not 
dying. She was young yet and was going to have 
many more years of sunshine and pleasure before sink- 
ing into the oblivion of the cold, dark grave. No, no, 
let them not speak of death, that fearsome, awful 
spectre. She was going to live. Take it away, take it 
away, that dreadful thing standing there beside her, 
laying its icy hand upon her forehead. Its touch 
was turning her to stone. She was cold, and it 
was growing so dark she could see nothing. Why 
did they not bring lights ; why did they not take away 
the dreadful thing beside her bed? 

The final struggle was fearful to behold, and even 
now Nita is haunted day and night by the scene. Even 
now, there are times when she springs from her sleep 
with a cry of terror, thinking she is again assisting at 


HE HATH PUT DOWN THE MIGHTY. 5 1 


the departure of that poor soul who fought so 
frantically against the power of death. 

With her mother, a large part of their income died 
also, but she still had sufficient money to supply her 
wants. Her voice, too, was a fortune in itself ; man- 
agers all over the country were eager and anxious to 
sign a contract on any terms she chose to dictate. The 
shock of her mother’s death so unnerved her that she 
decided to spend a year in rest and travel before re- 
turning to the stage. She had come abroad again, but 
had scarcely reached London when she was attacked 
by a severe throat trouble. The most eminent physi- 
cians were consulted, various treatments tried, but the 
disease would not yield. The south of France was 
recommended, and hither she had come in a last vain 
effort to save the voice which had charmed all Europe. 
At first she was incredulous. Then, she hoped against 
hope that time would prove them wrong and that the 
lost voice would return some day even better and richer 
than it was before. Now, all her hopes are gone, all 
her delusions swept away. She knows she will never 
sing again, and here in her hand she holds the cable 
message which forms the last in this series of dire 


52 


THE ALCHEMIST’S SECRET. 


misfortunes which have come upon her within the last 
two years. It is the message which tells her that her 
investments have failed and that she is penniless. 

She sits by her window in the June twilight, the 
numbness of despair taking possession of her. On 
the table lies all the money she owns in the world. It 
is sufficient to cover the few bills she owes, the salary 
of the woman who has traveled with her as maid and 
companion, and pay her passage back to her native 
land. But what then ? America once reached, where 
can she go, to whom can she turn? The distant 
relatives, the friends who crowded around her in her 
days of success, anxiously seeking a smile, a word, a 
token of her favor, how will they receive her if she 
goes to them a pauper, a dependent upon their charity ? 
There is no one to whom she can turn, no place to 
which she can go, and as the twilight deepens a heavier 
blackness settles upon the soul of the girl. 

Presently the sound of music breaks in on the even- 
ing stillness, the sound of an organ responding to the 
touch of skilled fingers and blended with it the tones 
of women’s voices. The nuns in a neighboring con- 
vent are chanting the evening office. The sound recalls 


HE HATH PUT DOWN THE MIGHTY. 53 


the chapel at Saint Zita’s, the orchard, the nuns, dear 
kind Reverend Mother. What peaceful, happy hours 
those were ? Has she ever known real happiness since 
she quitted the quiet convent home of her childhood? 
Even in the days of her greatest triumphs, was there 
not always something she could not attain, the little bit 
more which was always wanting? But at Saint Zita’s, 
how different, oh ! how different ! Happiness such as 
the world could not dream of ruled within its walls. 
She wonders what they are doing now, the dear nuns 
and Reverend Mother. They, too, are probably in the 
chapel reciting the office; some of them thinking of 
her perhaps. What would they say if they knew how 
false she has proven to all their teachings, how careless 
she has grown in the practice of that religion which is 
dearer to them than life itself? 

A sentence in the last letter she received from 
Reverend Mother comes now to her mind. The letter 
reached her years before and has never been answered. 
The words are these : 

Dear child, you are successful and happy now, with 
the world at your feet, but if the day ever comes when 
all these things fall away from you and you stand in 


54 


THE ALCHEMIST’S SECRET. 


need of a true friend or of any assistance we can 
render, remember Saint Zita's is still your home and 
your old mother's heart is sick with longing for a 
sight of her child. Worldly joys must vanish, worldly 
hopes decay, but Saint Zita’s and Reverend Mother 
will be here waiting for you." 

How she longs for the peace and quiet of the old 
home and the comforting touch of Reverend Mother's 
kind arms about her! What is it that the nuns are 
singing ! The “ Magnificat." She listens in silence 
for a few moments, then, a strange smile curving her 
lips, she recites in unison with the choir : 

Deposuit potentes de sede. Yea, Lord, Thou hast 
indeed put down the mighty." 

It is not until after the voices are stilled, long after 
the world is wrapped in slumber, that the girl turns 
from her open window and gathers together the small 
store of money on the table beside her, repeating to her- 
self the while, slowly, half absently: 

‘‘I wonder; I wonder." 

Another year has rolled around and again the June 


HE HATH PUT DOWN THE MIGHTY. 55 


roses in the garden at Saint Zita’s fill the summer air 
with their heavy fragrance. The convent door opens 
and Reverend Mother steps out into the portico accom- 
panied by a caller, one of the old girls ” come back 
to pay a fleeting visit to the home of her childhood. 
The nun has changed but little with the passing of the 
years, but those who love her best note with anxious 
eyes the slight stoop of the shoulders and feebleness 
of gait. 

The visitor glances idly at a lay-sister who is busily 
engaged sweeping the long flight of stone steps leading 
from the portico to the driveway below. Her glance 
passes over the insignificant figure of the lay-sister, 
and, looking across to the pine grove on the hill, she 
speaks to Reverend Mother. 

“ Do you know, Mother, every time I stand here and 
look at those trees I am reminded of Nita, ‘ the night- 
ingale of Saint Zita’s,’ as we used to call her. That 
grove was ever her favorite resort and even the odor 
of pines makes me think of her. I wish I knew what 
had become of her. I witnessed her performance the 
only time she sang here in America, and truly, it was 
wonderful. Then she disappeared completely from the 


56 


THE ALCHEMIST’S SECRET. 


face of the earth, as completely as if the ground had 
opened and swallowed her. Rumors came of her 
travels in England and the south of France and after 
that no news of her could be obtained. Occasionally, 
my dear Mother,'^ and the visitor smiled knowingly; 
“ occasionally I have fancied that you knew her where- 
abouts and could tell us of her.” 

‘‘ You are right, dear child, I could tell you, but I 
may not.” 

At least, Mother, tell me this : She is well and 
happy ? ” 

She is well, indeed, and I think I may safely say 
happier than she has ever been before.” 

“ Thank you, Mother,” and the visitor descends the 
steps and is gone. 

‘‘ Sister Gabrielle,” calls Reverend Mother gently. 

The lay-sister approaches, her broom still in her 
hand. 

‘‘ You heard our conversation. Sister? ” 

“ Yes, my Mother.” 

‘‘ I spoke truly, did I not, dearest child ? ” and the 
old eyes peer anxiously into the depths of the younger 
and smiling eyes raised to meet her gaze. 


HE HATH PUT DOWN THE MIGHTY. 57 


‘‘ You spoke truly, my Mother. Never before have 
I known what real peace and real happiness were. 
Never did I dream that life on earth could be as mine 
is, so happy that it seems to me a little foretaste of the 
joy the angels must know in heaven. Deposuit 
potentes de sede, et exaltavit humiles” 


A MEMORABLE CHRISTMAS MORNING. 


On the outskirts of one of our large mill towns, at 
the very end of a narrow street lined on each side by a 
row of dwelling houses of the poorer class, stood a 
tiny cottage. It was a humble, unpretentious abode 
of only four rooms, but it was home to the weary girl 
struggling up the hillside. The tired eyes brightened 
and lagging steps quickened involuntarily as she turned 
the corner and saw the welcoming light streaming from 
the kitchen window. 

It was very late on the eve of Christmas day and 
the street was deserted save for the solitary figure 
hastening towards that beacon light of home. Dark- 
ness and silence reigned in most of the houses she 
passed, and she sighed as she said to herself : 

** Poor mother ! Still up and still at work. I wish 
she would not work so hard; there is no need for it 
now.” 

Reaching the kitchen window she stood for a mo- 

58 


A MEMORABLE CHRISTMAS MORNING. 59 


merit to take note of the little scene within. By the 
table her mother sat sewing, her head bent over her 
work and fingers flying as she plied the needle in and 
out. As the girl watched, the mother looked up at 
the clock on the shelf above the stove, shook her head 
sadly, and hastily brushing away the tears which 
spring to her eyes, resumed her sewing. 

“Poor mother!” again sighed the girl. “Worry- 
ing about Tim, as usual, I suppose.” Then opening 
the kitchen door, she stepped into the welcome warmth 
and light of home. 

“ Well, little mother,” she cried cheerily ; “ here I 
am at last, and I suppose you thought I was never 
coming. You see, dear, we had to work very late to- 
night to finish a large order. Then there was confes- 
sion and I was delayed there quite a while. I was 
almost the last to be heard and it was considerably 
after ten by the time I left the church. Everyone in 
town seemed to be going to confession to-night.” 

“ Not everyone,” said her mother sadly. “ There 
is one who has not been in spite of his promise to us 
and to the Father.” 

The girl glanced quickly at the table on which plates 


6o 


THE ALCHEMIST’S SECRET. 


for two were laid, then at the supper keeping hot upon 
the stove, and exclaimed rather bitterly: 

‘‘ So Tim is away again, as usual, is he? And he 
promised faithfully to come home early to-night and 
go to confession for Christmas. But then, he promised 
the same last Easter and every First Friday since, 
and has broken his word every time. Mother, how 
long is it now since Tim has been to Mass or to con- 
fession ? ” 

I do not like to think, child ; it’s a pretty long time. 
I can’t understand what has come over him. He used 
to be such a good boy, such a help and comfort to me, 
and now he is slowly breaking my heart. I’ve had 
trials enough, trials enough, as you know, but I never 
complained. I never murmured till now. I was 
always ready to say : ‘ God’s will be done.’ But this, 

this is different. Long ago, when you and Tim were 
children, and the twins upstairs were but a few weeks 
old, and your father met with that accident that crip- 
pled him for life, I only said : ‘ God’s will be done.’ 

All through the years he lingered in sickness and suffer- 
ing and I had to work day and night, day and night 
to support you all, I still said only : ‘ God’s will be 


A MEMORABLE CHRISTMAS MORNING. 6i 


done.' All through that long, hard fight to keep 
starvation from the door, when I saw my little children 
crying at times with cold and hunger, and watched my 
husband slowly dying and was unable to give him any 
of those little comforts and luxuries which the sick 
require, my only words were : ‘ His holy will be done.' 
But in this, the worst of all the trials that have come 
to me, when I see my boy drifting away from us all, 
turning his back on God and his religion and wandering 
away night after night with careless, jovial compan- 
ions, intent only on the pursuits of pleasure and folly; 
God help me, I simply cannot bow my head and say: 
‘ God’s will be done ' " ; and tears streamed unheeded 
from the mother’s eyes. 

The girl stepped quickly to her mother’s side and 
drew the gray head gently to her shoulder, whispering 
comfortingly : There, there, little mother, don’t cry 

so. lYou are fretting yourself to death over Tim, and 
surely, surely, things will come right in the end. Tim 
is not a bad boy, mother dear, only a little wild just 
now. Remember how good he used to be, how kind, 
how helpful, in that hard time you were just speaking 
about. Remember how good he was when father died, 


62 


THE ALCHEMISTS SECRET. 


and how young he was when he first went to work to 
help you support us all. Tim’s a good boy at heart, 
mother, and he’s bound to come back before long.” 

‘‘ Yes, dearie, that’s what the Father says,” returned 
her mother, slowly drying her eyes and rising to lay 
the girl’s supper upon the table. 

‘‘ He says not to worry but just pray, pray, pray, and 
Tim will surely come back before long. But there, 
dear, sit down and eat your supper; then we’ll fill 
the children’s stockings for I can guess what is in all 
those parcels you brought home. Poor little things, 
it would not be Christmas for them unless they hung 
their stockings. Thank God, I’ve always managed to 
find something to put into them if it was only an orange 
or an apple and a little candy. Indeed, that’s about all 
it was when you and Tim were younger, but life is so 
much easier now that you are helping me.” 

‘‘ And it is going to be easier still, mother dear, and 
you will be the happiest little woman in the world one 
of these days. This wild spell of Tim’s is bound to 
pass and then he will settle down and be his own old 
self again. There, dear,” the girl continued, a few 
moments later; “my supper is finished and now I’ll 


A MEMORABLE CHRISTMAS MORNING. 63 


clear away these dishes and fill the children’s stockings. 
Just see all the pretty things I’ve brought for them. 
Won’t their little eyes dance when they see them! 
Then, mother dear, before we go to sleep, you and 1 
will say the rosary for Tim. It is too late for him to 
go to confession to-night, but wherever he is, and God 
alone knows where he may be, he needs our prayers 
and he will have them. As the good Father said, we 
will pray, pray, pray. If we only pray hard enough 
and trust hard enough, things are bound to come right 
in the end.” 

The afternoon and evening had been unusually busy 
ones for Father Xavier. Hour after hour he had sat 
in the confessional listening to the tales of sin and 
sorrow that were poured into his ears. Hour after 
hour he had spent bestowing the priestly absolution on 
the repentant sinner, giving fatherly advice and con- 
solation to the sorrowful, sending all those troubled 
souls away lighter and happier for his ministrations. 
Hour after hour he had waited, hoping against hope, 
for the sound of the one voice above all others which 
he most desired to hear. 

In a town like that which formed Father Xavier’s 


64 


THE ALCHEMIST’S SECRET. 


parish, the pastor is indeed the father of his flock. 
Every man, woman and child is known to him person- 
ally, and he takes a direct interest in each one’s welfare. 
As Father Xavier sat that Christmas eve and listened 
to the confessions of his people, his heart grew sad and 
hope gradually died away as he waited in vain for the 
voice of one whom he was striving to bring back to 
God and to his duty. 

The crowd of penitents melted away one by one, the 
few last stragglers had been heard, and still the priest 
waited in his confessional. The boy might possibly 
come even yet, his boy whom he had loved with a 
special affection ever since he was a tiny little chap 
first learning his prayers in the baby class of the 
Sunday-school. Why was it he had not been able to 
hold the boy? Why had he not been able to prevent 
his wandering away with bad companions, this absolute 
neglect of all religious duties on the part of his boy? 
Why could he not succeed in bringing him back again 
even though the boy had wandered far afield? 

Father Xavier had hoped much from this Christmas 
^eve, for Tim had promised faithfully to make his con- 
fession and to start anew in the path from which his 


A MEMORABLE CHRISTMAS MORNING. 65 


feet had strayed. Tim had promised it as his Qirist- 
mas gift to the Father. Yes, Tim had promised, but 
Tim had broken his promise. 

With a sigh of utter weariness, weariness of body, 
weariness of mind. Father Xavier rose and left the 
confessional. He glanced over the church; it was 
empty. He glanced towards the altar and his eyes 
rested on the sanctuary lamp which appeared to be 
burning with unwonted brightness. 

The hour was late, much later than he was ac- 
customed to keep the church open, still he lingered, 
unwilling to give up a last forlorn hope that his boy 
might yet keep his promise. With eyes fixed on the 
Tabernacle door, the priest knelt and commenced to 
recite the rosary, pleading, pleading for his boy. The 
joyful mysteries were finished and no one came; the 
sorrowful, still no one; finally, the glorious mysteries, 
and still the priest was alone. 

With one last appeal for the welfare of that wander- 
ing soul, Father Xavier rose from his knees and walked 
to the door of the church to close it for the night. He 
passed out on the steps and stood for a moment listen- 
ing to a band of roisterers that were coming up the 


66 


THE ALCHEMIST’S SECRET. 


street disturbing the peaceful quiet of the night with 
their noisy songs and laughter. Where was his hoy 
at that moment ? He might possibly be with this very 
band of half-drunken revellers who were even now 
passing by and would soon be swallowed up in the 
darkness of the street. If not with this band, he was 
probably wandering somewhere with another just like 
it. Where was his boy at that moment? The priest 
turned, re-entered the church, and locking the door, 
passed up the aisle extinguishing the lights as he went 
along. He stood before the altar and once more 
looked at the sanctuary lamp. It was certainly burn- 
ing with unusual brightness to-night. It set weird, 
fantastic shadows dancing along the walls and peopled 
the dim recesses of the church with goblin shapes. It 
seemed beckoning to him, calling to him, drawing him 
gradually to the steps of the altar, where he sank 
upon his knees to pray once more for his wandering 
boy. 

For yet an hour the priest lingered before the 
Tabernacle. Then, utterly worn out in mind and body, 
he passed through the sacristy, locked the door, and 
mounted the steps of his own house to seek a few hours 


A MEMORABLE CHRISTMAS MORNING. C; 


of rest before commencing the arduous duties of 
Christmas day. 

The church and rectory were situated on a hill and 
the priest stood in his doorway and looked down upon 
the town below. It was now after midnight, but many 
lights were still burning and the faint sound of distant 
merry-making reached the priest’s ears. Was his boy 
down there among the revellers ? 

Beyond the town lay the river, frozen, dark and still ; 
and beyond that again shone the lights of the neighbor- 
ing city. Was his boy over there beyond that dark, 
silent river? Was he over there in the city in some 
one of those dens of iniquity which had lured so many 
young men to their ruin ? 

Well, wherever the boy was he must be left now to 
the care of God and his angel for Father Xavier had 
done all he could that night; and the priest went in 
and closed the door. 

At that same moment, in a little cottage at the other 
end of the town, a sleepless mother rose from her 
knees beside the kitchen table and passed slowly up the 
stairs to her own room. The children and the eldest 
girl were long since asleep, but the mother could not 


68 


THE ALCHEMIST’S SECRET. 


rest for thinking of her wayward boy. Where was he 
to-night; where at this very moment? And he had 
promised, promised faithfully to turn over a new leaf 
with this Christmas eve. Christmas eve was here, nay, 
it was come and gone for midnight had sounded and it 
was now Christmas morning. Still, this night must 
be for her as all those other nights when she had lain 
awake hour after hour listening in silent anguish for 
the footstep that did not come. She had hoped much 
from that promise of his to Father Xavier and to her, 
and her disappointment was proportionately bitter. 

The mother walked to the window and looked out 
upon the silent, frosty night. Low down upon the 
horizon myriads of stars were twinkling merrily, but 
high up in the heavens the moon shone with a brilliant 
radiance that totally eclipsed all lesser lights. The 
night was very still, very beautiful, but the silence and 
the beauty failed to bring peace to the mother’s heart. 
She looked up into the heavens. How placidly cold the 
moon looked back at her, the same moon that was 
probably shedding its beams upon her boy at that 
moment and could tell her where he was if it could but 
speak. Why, oh why, could those beams not speak 


A MEMORABLE CHRISTMAS MORNING. 69 


and tell her what they saw; why could they not bring 
her some message from the absent one! She had 
never felt like this before, she had never felt so restless, 
so uneasy. It was impossible to think of sleep; she 
would pray still longer. Perhaps the boy needed her 
prayers; perhaps he was in danger, danger of body, 
danger of soul, and needed her help. Her rosary in 
her fingers, she knelt by the window praying, praying, 
while the moonbeams danced and played around the 
kneeling figure. Perhaps it was just as well they 
could not speak and tell her what they saw out there 
upon the river. Perhaps they were trying to tell her 
and could not; trying to tell her of the three men, one 
of whom was scarce more than a boy, struggling out 
there in the icy water, struggling for life as the current 
sought to drag them down beneath the frozen surface. 
Their fingers clutched desperately at the ragged edges 
of the ice that had broken through with them and 
cracked and crumbled away at their touch. 

Now but two figures were visible to the watching 
moonbeams; one had been dragged down into the 
black waters, down to his death in the freezing depths 
below. 


70 


THE ALCHEMIST’S SECRET. 


For a moment a cloud covered the moon’s face 
obscuring its view of things terrestrial. When it 
passed and that scene upon the river was once more 
visible, only one figure remained still struggling 
bravely; still clutching at the slippery, crackling ice; 
still fighting, not for life alone, but for his soul’s 
salvation. What thoughts must have passed through 
his mind in those dreadful, despairing moments ! 
Thoughts of sins committed, of graces neglected; 
thoughts of all that might have been and of all that 
was. Who can know of the sorrow and remorse that 
filled his heart, of the wild cry for help and pardon that 
went up from the river that night ? 

Meanwhile, the moon shone calmly, steadily, on the 
boy still fighting for his life, on the mother praying at 
her chamber window, and on good Father Xavier 
sleeping the sleep of the exhausted. 

Somewhat later, but still before the dawn, he was 
summoned from that sleep to answer a sick call from 
the hospital just across the river, to which he was 
chaplain. Three young men coming home from the 
city shortly after midnight had attempted to cross the 
frozen river, though warned of the danger of doing 


A MEMORABLE CHRISTMAS MORNING. 71 


so. The ice had broken through, two were drowned, 
one saved, and the doctors thought he would live 
though unconscious at present. 

No, the names of the young men were not known as 
yet. The sisters at the hospital sent for the priest 
because the boy brought there wore a scapular and they 
knew he must be a Catholic. Aside from that nothing 
was known about him. 

Father Xavier's heart stood still. Something told 
him that his boy had been one of those three. Two 
drowned, one saved! Which, oh, which was the one 
saved ? 

The hospital reached, it was with rapidly beating 
heart he followed the nurse through the ward and stood 
beside the bed at the farther end. The night light 
burned low and the features of the boy upon the bed 
were scarcely visible. Stooping low, a fervent Thank 
God " broke from the priest’s lips as he recognized in 
the silent figure, the boy for whom his heart had been 
yearning. His boy had been the one that was saved. 
Yes, saved from death, saved from worse than death, 
saved to carry out the resolutions he had made while 
struggling in the icy river that Christmas morning. 


NANCY’S TALE. 


“ Dear, dear ! but God’s ways are wonderful, there’s 
no denyin’ that. Many a time we poor mortals think 
if we only had the handlin’ of things, the world would 
be a pleasanter place for some of us, but I reckon the 
Lord knows His own business best. He usually man- 
ages to bring things out right in the end, so He does.” 

Nancy sat before the kitchen stove, rocking to and 
fro, and gazing abstractedly before her. Her mood 
was a reminiscent one and I knew if I gave her time 
enough she would launch forth into one of the inter- 
esting narratives of which she possessed a goodly 
store. To have interrupted her train of thought by 
even a whisper would have been fatal; silence and 
patience must be my watch-words. Presently she 
turned to me with the query : 

‘‘ ’Member Mona, the old apple-woman you met 
here about a year ago ? ” 

Remember the apple- woman? Indeed I did; once 
72 


NANCY’S TALE. 


73 


having met Mona it was impossible to forget her. Be- 
sides, she was, one might say, one of the landmarks 
of the town, the frail, shadowy little woman who sold 
her apples and peanuts and candy from her stand on 
the street-corner. Nancy’s words reminded me that 
I had not seen Mona lately at her usual place of 
business. 

Well,” resumed Nancy, Mona’s gone, gone for- 
ever. Poor Mona! It’s the hard life she’s had, and 
I’m after thinkin’ she’s not sorry that it’s over and 
she’s found peace an’ happiness at last. Want to 
know her story? Well, I’ll tell it to you, for it’s me 
that can, havin’ known her since we was wee scraps 
of babies playin’ on the floor together back there in the 
old country. Yes, indeed, we were babies together, 
we grew up together, an’ we come out here to 
America on the same ship. Dear, dear, how long ago 
that was, an’ it don’t seem much more than yesterday. 

‘‘ Well, as I was sayin’, times was mighty hard in 
Ireland that year, specially in the little town where me 
an’ Mona was born an’ reared. Crops failed, work 
was slack; finally, famine an’ pestilence took posses- 
sion of the land. Ah! child, child, you cannot dream 


74 


THE ALCHEMIST’S SECRET. 


what them words mean, famine an' pestilence. To see 
the rich growin’ poor, the poor starvin’ an’ dyin’ on 
every hand; the little children cryin’ with cold an’ 
hunger, an’ the fathers an’ mothers with ne’er a scrap 
of food to give ’em. That was the state of things in 
Ireland the year we left it. i 

The plague had carried off my father an’ mother, 
my brothers was all married an’ moved away, an’ my 
only sister was at service in London, so when Mona 
begged me to come to America with her an’ Michael 
an’ the little ones, I just jumped at the chance. 
Michael was a good fellow, sober an’ industrious, but 
there was no work to be had at home and he had heard 
such wonders of the land across the sea. There, a 
man that was a man had no trouble in findin’ work an’ 
making a comfortable livin’ for himself an’ family. 
He wanted to leave Mona with his sister in Dublin, 
who offered to care for her an’ the children until he’d 
made a home for ’em in the country he was goin’ to. 
But no, Mona wouldn’t hear to that. She’d promised 
at God’s altar to take him for better or worse an’ to 
cling to him till death. Because the worse had come, 
she wasn’t goin’ to desert him an’ let him go out alone 


NANCY’S TALE. 


75 


to the cold land of the stranger to fight his battle all 
by himself. She’d go with him an’ stand by him and 
help an’ comfort him in his struggles. She knew she 
could help him. She’d been taught by the nuns an’ 
could do all sorts of fine sewin’. In America, as in 
Dublin, there must be rich ladies who would pay well 
for a bit of fine embroidery or hand-made lace. No, 
no, Mona wouldn’t be left behind; he must take her 
an’ the little ones, no matter what was before them. 
It was settled at last that we was all to go together, 
an’ so, one bright mornin’ we stood on the deck of the 
ship that was carryin’ us far away from home an’ all 
we loved, far away to the strange land across the sea. 
With the tears runnin’ down our faces, we waved 
farewell to the shores of Ireland, an’ Mona, though 
she didn’t know it, was wavin’ farewell to happiness 
in this world. Poor girl, it’s little she knew from that 
day on but grief an’ trouble an’ sufferin’. 

Well, child, as I was sayin’, it was the fine, bright 
mornin’ that we left Ireland, but the good weather 
held for only a few days after. Then, there blew up 
such a storm as I neevr see before an’ hope never to 
see again. It was fearful, fearful. I couldn’t describe 


76 


THE ALCHEMIST’S SECRET. 


it to you if I tried. We just lay in our berths, every 
one of us, our backs agin the wall, our knees braced 
agin the board in front, an’ we holdin’ on for dear life 
expectin’ every moment to be dashed out on to the 
floor an’ have all our bones broken. We was too 
frightened to say a word, but we prayed, oh, my ! how 
we did pray, every mother’s son of us. For nigh 
onto three days that poor boat struggled on bravely 
agin the ragin’ storm, but the ship wasn’t built that 
could live in that sea, an’ the end was bound to come 
sooner or later. Come, it did, at last. An officer 
stood on the stairs orderin’ us all up onto the deck; 
the ship had sprung a leak, the water was pourin’ in 
faster than they could pump it out, an’ we must take 
to the boats at once. 

‘‘ I never can remember rightly what happened then. 
It seems now such a confusin’ jumble of men, women 
and childer, all screamin’ an’ rushin’ for the stairs, 
and all the time the wind was a howlin’ an’ the vessel 
was groanin’ an’ pitchin’ so you had to cling to what- 
ever was nearest to keep on your feet at all. I don’t 
know how we got there, but the next thing I remem- 
ber was standin’ on the deck an’ hangin’ on to some- 


NANCY’S TALE. 


77 


thing to keep from bein’ washed overboard by the 
great waves that broke over the ship an’ flooded her 
from stem to stern. Mona stood near me with the 
baby on her arm an’ holdin’ tight to the hand of little 
Gerald who hid his face in her skirt an’ sobbed in 
terror. Michael was beside her, one arm holdin’ her 
close while with the other he hung onto the railin’ just 
as I was doin’. Pretty soon, the boats was lowered an’ 
everyone made a rush for ’em. There was a shout of : 

‘‘‘Stand back, there, stand back! Women an’ 
children first; only the women an’ children.’ 

“ The ship’s officers an’ sailors beat back the men 
an’ commenced puttin’ the women into the boats as 
fast as they could. One of ’em caught Mona by the 
arm an’ tried to hurry her away. She struggled with 
him an’ begged to be left with Michael. The sailor 
swore at her an’ then I heard Michael’s voice, calm an’ 
steady, above the din of the storm : 

“ ‘ Go at once, asthore,’ say he ; ‘ for the sake of 
the childer, go at once. Sure, dearie,’ says he, ‘ we’re 
in the Lord’s hands anyway ! can’t ye trust Him on the 
water just the same as on the land? ’ 

“The sailor lifted Mona an’ the baby in his arm 


78 


THE ALCHEMIST’S SECRET. 


(it's the wee bit of a thing she was always) an’ passed 
her on to another to be lowered into the boat. Michael 
caught up little Gerald an’ cried out to me: ‘ Take the 
boy with you, Nancy; take him quick, girl.’ But be- 
fore I could lay my hand on the child I was seized and 
put into the boat beside Mona. The poor girl 
screamed and held out her arms for the little lad, but 
the boat was shoved off an’ the last thing I can remem- 
ber, as a mountain of water rolled up between us an’ 
the ship, was seein’ Michael still dingin’ to the rail 
an’ holdin’ little Gerald on his arm. Then Mona 
fainted agin my shoulder and I had my hands full 
tendin’ her an* the baby. 

“ It was nearly dusk when we took to the boat, an’ 
pretty soon it was so dark you could scarce see your 
hand before you. I’ll never forget the horrors of that 
night, indeed then I won’t, tossin’ on top of waves as 
big as mountains an’ the next minute goin’ down, 
down, down, till I thought sure we’d strike bottom 
before ever we come up again. But even the longest 
night must wear away, an’ when day broke we seen 
a big vessel cornin’ towards us an’ in the course of an 
hour or so we was all transferred to her decks. She 


NANCY’S TALE. 


79 


cruised around for a time, hopin’ to pick up some of 
the other boats, but couldn’t find none of ’em. There 
was no tellin’ how far away from the wreck an’ the 
boats we’d drifted in the night. The vessel that picked 
us up was bound for America an’ so we continued our 
voyage to this country. 

I’ve often heard people complain of the coldness 
an’ hardness of the world ; by ‘ the world,’ always 
meanin’ the folks that live in it, I suppose. To my 
way of thinkin’ there’s a deal more kindness in the 
world than there is selfishness an’ badness, an’ the 
people on that steamer proved me right in one case 
anyway. They made up a purse among ’em an’ give 
a share to each of us that had been picked out of the 
sea, as you might say. So, when we landed, we each 
had a little money to start in with. I soon found work 
in a mill, an’ my poor Mona managed to keep herself 
an’ the baby by doin’ fine sewin’. For a long time we 
kep’ house together, me an’ Mona, then I married an’ 
moved away to another town. My own troubles come 
on me thick an’ fast after that an’ what with one thing 
an’ another, an’ movin’ here an’ there, it was years be- 
fore I set eyes on her again. Then we met quite by 


8o 


THE ALCHEMIST’S SECRET. 


accident an^ I found she was livin’ not far from here 
with an old woman who peddled shoestrings an^ 
pencils on the street. Mona herself kep’ a stand on a 
corner where she sold apples an’ peanuts an’ such 
stuff. 

‘‘ That night she come to see me here an’ we talked 
over old times an’ all that had happened since last we 
met. She’d done well at her sewin’, she said, and 
brought up the baby in tolerable comfort. Then, just 
as the child was growin’ into a woman that could be 
of help to her mother an’ pay her back for her years 
of workin’ an’ strugglin’, she was took down with con- 
sumption. All the little poor Mona had managed to 
save went in carin’ for her sick daughter an’ buryin’ her 
when she died. By that time, Mona’s health was 
pretty well broke up, her eyes was not as good as they 
used to be, an’ she had to give up the sewin’. She fell 
in with the old woman who peddled shoestrings, and, 
by her advice, started in with her apple-stand. They’d 
been together ever since an’ managed to earn a livin’ 
between ’em. We talked an’ we talked that night, an’ 
when Mona was goin’ she turned to me an’ says : 

“ ‘ Nancy,’ says she, ‘ I can’t tell you how thank- 


NANCY’S TALE. 


8i 


ful I am to have seen you again. An’ I can’t tell you 
how much good you’ve done me. Nancy,’ says she, 
* I’ve been a wicked woman, a wicked, rebellious 
woman,’ says she. “ I’ve said dreadful things in my 
heart an’ felt hard an’ bitter at times against Almighty 
God for all the trials an’ sufferin’ He sent me. When 
I look at you. I’m ashamed of myself. I’ve lost a hus- 
band, so have you ; I lost a daughter, you lost two ; my 
son sleeps at the bottom of the sea, but your son—. 
Nancy, Nancy, when I go home to-night. I’ll get 
down on my knees an’ thank God that my boy is 
sleepin’ at the bottom of the sea instead of wanderin’ 
the earth a shame an’ a disgrace to me.’ 

“ You see, child, that was before my Danny come 
back to me to be reconciled to His God. It was while 
he was still wanderin’ I didn’t know where, an’ goin’ 
from one piece of villainy to the next. 

‘‘ Poor Mona, I don’t believe she was half as bad 
as she made herself out to be, an’ certainly from that 
day to this I’ve never heard a complaint or a murmur 
cross her lips. She’s been sick, too, most all the time, 
an’ there’s been many a day when she’d ought to be 
home in bed but off she’d go an’ stand on her corner 


82 


THE ALCHEMIST’S SECRET. 


an’ peddle her apples because the old woman that lived 
with her was sicker than she an’ they wouldn’t have 
no money, come rent day, unless Mona went out an’ 
earned it for ’em. Talk about the heroes that done 
such wonderful things that folks has to write whole 
books about ’em ! I tell you what, child, there’s many 
a hero hid away in the dirty little side-streets and 
alley-ways of every big city; only folks don’t know 
about ’em. To my mind, Mona was one of them 
heroes; so sweet an’ patient, pretty well on in years 
herself, an’ all crippled with the rheumatism, but goin’ 
out day after day to sell her apples; a slavin’ an’ 
a killin’ herself for a woman a little older an’ a little 
sicker than she was. An’ all this because the old 
woman had been kind to her in her hour of greatest 
need. 

Well, after findin’ her again, I seen Mona every 
day; she used to come here in the evenin’ an’ we’d sit 
an’ talk of them that was gone. She was with me 
when my Danny died, an’ she thanked God with me 
for havin’ brought him back to me in the end. Then, 
one night, Mona didn’t come, but they brought me a 
message sayin’ she was in the hospital, dyin’ from an 


NANCY’S TALE. 


83 


accident, an' wanted to see me right away. I didn’t 
let the grass grow under my feet you may be sure, an’ 
before long I stood beside the bed where she was lyin’, 
her poor,^ pale face all drawn with sufferin’. I’ve 
called her a hero for the life she’d led, an’ her end was 
sure enough a hero’s end. That afternoon a child had 
started to run across the street at the corner where 
Mona’s apple-stand was. He didn’t see the horse an’ 
team that come tearin’ up the street, an’ the driver 
was too busy lashin’ the horse to see the child. In 
spite of her rheumatism, Mona dashed in front of the 
team, and with a quick shove, sent the child flyin’ out 
of harm’s away. He rolled over an’ over on the street, 
but beyond a scratch or two wasn’t hurt. But Mona 
fell an’ the team passed over her ankles crushin’ both 
of ’em badly. Her age an’ the shock, together with 
her injury, made ’em sure she couldn’t live long. 
The chaplain had been sent for, they told me, an’ 
would come at any moment now. 

** She was sleepin’ .when I reached her, so I sat 
down beside the bed an’ waited. The priest come an’ 
stood lookin’ down at her, an’ the kindness an’ pity on 
his face was wonderful to see. He looked at me an’ I 


84 


THE ALCHEMIST’S SECRET. 


fair jumped out of my chair with the shock his eyes 
sent through me. 

‘ Glory be to God ! ' I says, blessin’ myself, for 
I was all a tremble with the fright of it. ‘ Sure 
it’s Michael Conners himself come back from the 
dead.’ 

“ That very minute Mona’s eyes opened slowly an’ 
fixed themselves on the priest’s face. A smile that 
brought the tears to my eyes, it was that beautiful, 
crossed her face an’ she held out her thin, white hand 
to him, whisperin’, ‘ Michael.’ Then she closed 
her eyes again an’ was off unconscious once 
more. 

The priest looked first at her, then at me, an’ his 
face was all puzzled an’ amazed like. 

“ ‘ How do you know that my name is Michael 
Conners ? ’ says he. 

‘ How do you know it yourself. Father? ’ says I, 
for I had my suspicions by that time. 

“ ‘ Because of this,’ says he, showin’ me a strangely 
carved little black wooden crucifix attached to his 
beads. ‘ This was on my neck when I was saved from 
the wreck in which my father an’ mother perished.’ 


NANCY’S TALE. 


B5 


“ ‘ Well/ says I, ‘ you’re wrong. ’ Tain’t Michael, 
but Gerald, is your name, an’ praise be the Lord but 
this’ll be the happy day for my poor Mona when she 
finds out the truth. That crucifix with the name of 
Michael Conners on it was given to your father on his 
marriage day by the priest that married him. Here’s 
the mate to it that he give your mother on the same 
day,’ an’ I picked up Mona’s rosary lyin’ on the bed 
an’ showed him the cross on it. They was as like as 
two peas, only on the back of hers was carved the name 
of Mona Conners. 

Well, we had to break the news to her gently, an’ 
it’s the happy woman she was for the next few days 
in spite of all the pain she suffered. She’d just lie 
there holdin’ Gerald’s hand an’ gazin’ at him an’ 
makin’ him tell over an’ over again of how he’d been 
saved from the wreck. He was only a wee lad of 
three at the time, but he could still remember of his 
father standin’ there on the deck of the sinkin’ ship 
an’ holdin’ him in his arms. He could still hear the 
words his father spoke to him an’ feel the father’s 
hand slippin’ the rosary over his head an’ claspin’ the 
little fingers around the cross as it lay on his breast. 


86 


THE ALCHEMIST’S SECRET. 


Michael had passed him to a sailor an’ he was lowered 
into one of the boats, where a kind-hearted woman 
took compassion on his loneliness an’ cared for him. 
They’d been picked up by a sailin’ vessel bound for 
France, an’ the woman who first cared for him, took 
him with her from France to America an’ finally 
adopted him. She brought him up, educated him, an’ 
at last he became a priest of God. 

** He was with his mother to the very end, an’ it 
was his hand that give her the last blessin’ of the 
Church an’ his voice recited the prayers that send the 
departin’ soul safe on its journey to the throne of God. 
It’s the happy woman my Mona was in them last few 
days upon earth, an’ it’s the happy woman she is this 
day, all her troubles over, all her sufferin’s gone, an’ 
she in Paradise for ever an’ ever.” 

During Nancy’s recital, the shadows of twilight had 
gathered and deepened, and now her little kitchen was 
wrapped in darkness. Still, she sat for several mo- 
ments buried in thought which I cared not to inter- 
rupt. Then, with a sigh, she rose to light the lamp 
and I noticed that tears filled her eyes though the 
brave lips were smiling. 


NANCY’S TALE. 


87 


Yes, yes,’’ she repeated. God’s ways are 
wonderful, they are that. Even if we don’t understand 
things in this world, we’re sure to in the next, for the 
Lord knows His own business best every time.” 


PATSY. 


Patsy was wide awake in a second. What was it 
those men were talking about ; what was it they were 
planning to do ? That name, and “ the brown house 
on the hill ” ! By a strong effort, he kept his eyes 
closed and breathed regularly and deeply as though 
still sleeping. He must not let them suspect that he , 
was listening, but he must catch every word they said, j 
every word. How he hated them, this band of rascals j 
that had gotten his David into their clutches and were ) 
slowly but surely making him as bad as they! His * 
David bad? No, no! David was kind and good and i 
gentle to him always. David was not bad, he would i 
not listen to their dreadful scheme. He would refuse 
to help them; surely he would. His David a thief? It 2 
was impossible. But that dreadful plan they were dis- 8 
cussing! ‘‘The brown house on the hill”; “to-mor-J 
row night ” ; and David was promising to go with 
them. 


88 


PATSY. 


89 


Patsy shivered beneath the bedclothes and bitter 
tears gathered in his eyes and trickled down the pale, 
sunken cheeks. The men were leaving and David was 
renewing his promise to accompany the expedition to 
the brown house on the hill to-morrow night. In 
fact, he was to act as guide to the man appointed to 
commit the deed, for who, so well as David, could 
show them the way to the library in which was the 
safe that they were going to rob ? 

They had gone now and Patsy felt that David was 
standing beside the bed and looking down at him. He 
opened his eyes and two more tears escaped, which he 
hastily brushed away. Immediately David was on his 
knees, the little cripple’s hand clasped tenderly in his. 

‘‘What’s the trouble, kid?” he questioned anx- 
iously. “ Is it the pain that’s bad to-night ? ” 

“ ’Tain’t the pain, Davy, ’tain’t the pain at all,” 
sobbed the child. 

“ What is it then, youngster ? Come now, tell your 
own Davy what’s troubling you, there’s a good 
boy.” 

“ David, how long is it since mother was taken 
away from us? It seems so long. I was thinkin’ of 


90 


THE ALCHEMIST’S SECRET. 


mother, Davy, and wishing she was here with us this 
night.” 

“ You poor kid, poor little crippled kid,” muttered 
David, patting the small, thin hand. ‘‘ It’s natural, I 
suppose, for you to pine for your mother, but ain’t 
Davy been almost like a mother to you, Patsy? He’s 
tried hard, that he has, to be father and mother and 
big brother all in one.” And the man smiled some- 
what wistfully. 

‘‘ You’ve been all that and more too, Davy. 
’Twasn’t on my account I was wishin’ for mother, 
’twas on yours. If she was here, she’d know how to 
keep you from going with them men to-morrow night. 
She’d know how to keep you to home, and I don’t know 
what to say or to do to stop you from going.” 

David’s face darkened slightly and there was a note 
of sternness in his voice as he said : 

‘‘ So you was listening, was you, and heard what we 
was talkin’ about ? ” 

“ I didn’t listen a purpose, David ; at least, not at 
first. I happened to wake and heard ’em speak of the 
brown house on the hill. Then I wanted to hear every- 
thing and I listened a purpose after that. Oh, Davy ! 


PATSY. 


91 


Davy! the child cried imploringly, sitting up in the 
bed and clasping his hands in petition; “don’t do it, 
Davy; don’t be a thief to please those wicked men; 
don’t go robbing the brown house on the hill.” 

A fearful fit of coughing racked the little form and 
David held him gently in his arms until the paroxysm 
had passed. Then, laying the boy back upon the pil- 
lows, he said quietly : 

“ You mustn’t get excited, Patsy, it’s bad for you. 
We’ll not talk no more to-night. In the morning I’ll 
tell you the story of the house on the hill and you’ll see 
I’m not tacklin’ this job to please anyone but myself. 
Go to sleep now, kid, for I’ll not say another word to- 
night, not another word.” 

When David spoke in that tone of voice Patsy knew 
there was nothing for him to do but to obey. Turn- 
ing his face to the wall, he closed his eyes, but sleep 
did not visit him that night. He lay listening for the 
stroke of the town clock as it sounded, one after an- 
other, the slowly dragging hours; he lay listening to 
David’s regular breathing and wondered how a man 
could sleep so calmly with such a deed in prospect ; he 
lay anxiously turning over in his mind various schemes 


92 


THE ALCHEMIST’S SECRET. 


by which he could frustrate the plan in case he failed 
in persuading David to abandon it altogether. Sev- 
eral times fits of coughing shook him nearly to pieces, 
and at those times the pain in his poor little chest was 
well-nigh unbearable. He smothered the cough as 
well as he could beneath the bedclothes for fear of dis- 
turbing David. As for the pain — well, pain and Patsy 
had been companions so long now that he had grown 
quite accustomed to it. 

The next day was cold and dismal, with a leaden 
sky threatening snow, and a bitter wind blowing that 
searched the very marrow of one’s bones. The few 
neighbors who chanced to glance out of their windows 
at an early hour in the afternoon were surprised to see 
Patsy making his way along the street, slowly and 
painfully, with the aid of his crutches. They had 
never known him to be abroad on a day like this; in- 
deed, it was many a day since he had attempted going 
upon the street at all. Poor little Patsy, his crutches 
were once a familiar sight going up and down the 
pavements on pleasant days in the summer time, but 
they had thought never to see him leave his room 
again. Did David know? Some one should stop the 


PATSY. 


93 


child; he was too weak to wander out alone like that. 
But then, it was no affair of theirs; David could prob- 
ably be trusted to look after the boy. 

As no one was willing to make it his business to 
interfere, Patsy went on his way unmolested. A 
strange look of determination battled with the pain on 
the sickly, childish face as he made his way bravely 
against the biting wind that sought to drive him back. 
He had learned the mystery of the house on the hill; 
he knew now why David hated so bitterly that house 
and all connected with it; he knew why David was 
willing and eager to help the men in the plan they were 
to carry out that night. David had told him all about 
it, and for the first time in his life he had felt afraid 
of this dearly loved brother of his. It had been a 
revelation to Pasty. Surely, this bitter, unforgiving, 
revengeful man could not be the same who had been 
father, mother and big brother to the little cripple for 
whom he had cared so tenderly since their mother had 
been taken from them. 

It had sounded like a fairy tale to Patsy; he could 
scarcely believe his own ears. Just to think if it ; that 
brown house on the hill had once been their mother’s 


94 


THE ALCHEMIST’S SECRET. 


home, and the man who lived there, the man whom 
David hated with undying hatred, was their mother’s 
brother and their uncle. On the day she married, she 
had left her home forever, her brother vowing that 
never as long as he lived would he set eyes upon her 
face again; to him she would be as though dead. 
Once, when father lay dying (Patsy could not re- 
member it, but David had told him of it), mother had 
written to their uncle imploring a little help in their 
misery. It was not for herself she had asked but for 
the dying husband and sickly baby. Her letter had 
been returned to her with these harsh words written 
on the back : Some mistake here. No woman has 
the right to call me brother. My only sister died years 
ago.” David had kept the letter ever since; he had 
been old enough at the time to understand. He had 
vowed then to have revenge some day and he kept the 
letter to remind him of the vow should he ever be in 
danger of forgetting it. 

Patsy knew now why his brother so hated the house 
on the hill, and why David had been so cross on that 
day last summer when he, Patsy, had come home and 
told of the young lady who had been so kind to him, 


PATSY. 


95 


the lady who lived in the house on the hill. As a 
rule, every one was good to Patsy. Even the children 
on the street, who quarrelled among themselves, strik- 
ing, reviling, pelting one another with stones, had, 
nothing but kind words and smiles for Patsy. But 
that day last summer he had wandered farther from 
home than usual and a crowd of rough boys had 
stopped and commenced tormenting him, laughing at 
him, calling him names, jeering at his deformity, and 
even pulling his hair and pinching his ears. The child 
had tried to push past them, but they closed in on him 
and it might have fared ill with Patsy but for the 
timely arrival on the scene of the young lady from the 
house on the hill. 

She quickly scattered the band of hoodlums and 
then walked with Patsy until he was well on his way 
home and safe from further attack. She had been 
kind to him, and made him promise to come and see 
her. That was how he knew her name and where she 
lived. He had wanted to see her again and had 
thought of her so often but David would not let 
him go. 

Many a night, when the pain kept him from sleep- 

1 


96 


THE ALCHEMIST’S SECRET. 


ing, he would while away the long hours by thinking 
of the gentle, beautiful girl, and he never said his 
prayers at night and morning, as mother had taught 
him, that he did not add a petition for his ‘‘ lovely 
lady.” And to think that she was his own cousin, his 
uncle’s daughter ; she lived in the house on the hill and 
it was her house that David and those men were plan- 
ning to rob. For her sake as well as David’s the deed 
must be prevented; her father must not be robbed; 
David must not become a thief. Patsy had deter- 
mined that last night when he first heard them men- 
tion the scheme. If no one else would stop them, he 
would, though he could not imagine how he was going 
to do it. He had thought and thought until his head 
ached so that he could hardly see, but no plan sug- 
gested itself to his mind. He prayed, too, long and 
eanestly, for the priest at the Sunday-school told them 
God would always answer little boys’ prayers if what 
they asked for was good for them. And was it not 
a good thing for which he was pleading? Simply that 
he might find a way to keep his lady from being 
robbed and save David from becoming a thief? 

At last, the idea he wanted had come to him ; he 


PATSY. 


97 


knew just what he must do to secure his end. There 
was danger in the plan, to himself, but he must risk 
that. It mattered little what happened to him if he 
could only save his David, his dear, kind big brother, 
who would never have thought of doing wrong had it 
not been for those wicked men who had led him astray. 
Patsy feared those men mightily. He Icnew their 
anger would be terrible should they discover how their 
plan had been frustrated. They might even kill him if 
they found him out, but he hoped they need not know. 
He would confess to David alone at supper time that 
evening; no matter how angry, David would not hurt 
his little brother. Of that Patsy was certain. Any- 
way, whatever the risk, he must take it to save David 
and to save the lady. 

The early winter twilight was closing in when 
Patsy reached his home again and dragged himself up 
the stairs to the one room which he and David oc- 
cupied. He was almost exhausted and his breath 
came in short, sharp gasps which cut him like knives. 
He would have liked to crawl into his bed, close his 
eyes and never open them again, he was so tired. But 
he must not give in yet; his task was but half ac- 


98 THE ALCHEMIST’S SECRET. 


complished. David must be told of what he had done, 
and at that thought a spasm of fear contracted his 
heart. Shivering, he drew a chair near the stove and 
and waited with closed eyes and pain-drawn face for 
the sound of David’s foot upon the stairs. 

Twilight passed and darkness filled the little room, 
still David did not come. Patsy lighted the lamp upon 
the table, wondering anxiously why his brother was so 
late. He put more coals upon the fire, which was 
burning low, and made the tea for David’s supper. 
He set out the loaf of bread, the cold meat, the cheese, 
upon the table, then resumed his chair and his eager 
listening for footsteps that were so long in coming. 
It seemed to Patsy he had waited for hours and hours, 
and suddenly his heart stopped beating and his eyes 
distended in terror as a thought occurred to him. Sup- 
pose David did not come at all! What, what would 
happen then? But there, that was David’s step and 
all would be well now. The child looked up eagerly 
as his brother entered the room, then, nearly cried 
aloud in his bitter disappointment. David was not 
alone. One of the gang was with him, and this was 
a contingency for which Patsy had made no allowance. 


PATSY. 


99 


What was he to do now? How could he tell his 
brother, how warn him, in the presence of that dread- 
ful man? 

For the first time in his life David was so preoccupied 
that he paid no heed to the little cripple who had now 
withdrawn to the darkest corner of the room and 
crouched there in abject terror. The two men made 
a hasty meal and then sat by the table talking in tones 
so low that Patsy heard scarcely a word of what was 
sid. Anyway, he cared nothing for their plans now; 
he had spoiled everything for them. But how was he 
to tell David, how was he to tell David ? 

By and by, a third man joined them and there was 
more whispering with heads close together. At last, 
the three arose and made preparations for going out. 
They moved towards the door and were astonished to 
find themselves confronted by a small, crippled figure, 
that stood swaying on his crutches, directly in their 
way. A bright red spot burned on either cheek, the 
eyes were brilliant with fever, and the child was pant- 
ing for breath. But he said very quietly, his eyes fixed 
steadily on his brother's face: 

‘‘ You mustn’t go out to-night, David.” 


lOO 


THE ALCHEMIST’S SECRET. 


The men gasped and looked at one another in amaze- 
ment. 

“ You mustn’t go out to-night, David,” the child 
repeated. ‘‘ You mustn’t none of you go to the house 
on the hill to-night.” 

“ We mustn’t go out, mustn’t we,” exclaimed one 
of the men roughly. “ Who’s to stop us going, I’d 
like to know? Stand aside, kid, before harm comes 
to you.” 

“ Who’s to stop you ? I am. I have stopped 
you.” 

A laugh of derision greeted this statement. 

‘‘Yes,” Patsy repeated; “I’ve stopped you. I 
peached on you; I warned ’em you was cornin’.” 

David’s face was terrible to see. 

“What’s that you’re saying, Patsy? You what?” 

“ I warned ’em this afternoon. I went to the house 
on the hill and told ’em you was cornin’. You mustn’t 
go, David, you mustn’t go. The police’ll be there 
waitin’ for you, ’cos I told ’em you was cornin’. I 
didn’t want you to be a thief, David; I done it for 
your sake. Oh, David, David ! ” 

David’s face was lived and his clenched fst was 


PATSY. 


lOI 


raised to strike, but Patsy and his crutches lay in a 
little huddled heap at David’s feet. 

When the child opened his eyes again, the men were 
gone and he and his brother were alone. He looked 
into the face bending above him and gave a sigh of 
relief. All the anger was gone, only anxious solicitude 
rested there. Patsy tried to speak, but his voice was 
so weak and low that David had difficulty in under- 
standing what he said. He leaned over to catch the 
faintly whispered words : 

“You ain’t mad at me now, are you, Davy? I’m 
so glad. I’d hate to go away thinkin’ you was mad 
at me. I had to do it, Davy, I had to tell; there 
wasn’t no other way to keep you from being a thief. 
I’m sorry to leave you alone, Davy, but I guess mother 
wants me in Heaven. You know the doctor said I’d 
be going soon anyway. Mother said she’d be waitin’ 
for you and me and I guess she wants me now. I’m 
sorry to leave you, but I’m afeared I must go. It’ll 
be lonesome for you when I’m gone. You’ll have no 
one to light the lamp and make the tea for you in the 
evenings. You’ll come home here at night and it’ll 
be all dark and lonely with no Patsy to meet you. 


102 


THE ALCHEMIST’S SECRET. 


But remember, David, I’ll be lookin’ at you from 
Heaven. Mother and I’ll be waitin’ for you there and 
I’m thinkin’ even Heaven won’t be just right till 
you’ve come to us. Promise me you’ll come to us 
some day; promise you’ll never go with them wicked 
men no more. Let ’em alone or they’ll make you as 
bad as they be, and then you won’t never see mother 
and me. Promise you’ll let ’em alone, Davy; promise 
you’ll be good and come to us in Heaven some day.” 

“ I promise, kid, I promise,” whispered David 
brokenly. “ With God’s help I’ll turn over a new leaf 
and I’ll come to you some day.” 

A smile brightened the pale, pinched face, a smile of 
absolute content and trustful affection. 

‘‘ God bless you, my Davy, God bless you,” mur- 
mured the faint voice haltingly. Good-by until 

we meet in Heaven.’^ 


THREE EVENINGS IN A LIFE. 


I. 

One by one the city clocks chimed the hour of mid- 
night. One by one Jane counted the strokes and 
sighed despairingly as she glanced at the window in 
which the light still burned so brightly. The air was 
bitter cold, a fine snow was falling, and she had been 
trudging up and down, up and down, for ages it seemed 
to her. Richard was growing so heavy and her arms 
ached so she could scarcely hold him. Still, there 
was nothing for it but to tramp up and down, up and 
down the narrow street, the baby in her arms, until 
mother should give the welcome signal. When that 
lamp in the window opposite was put out and the house 
in darkness, she would know that it was safe for her 
to creep up the stairs and into the bed in the kitchen 
which she shared with the baby brother now sleeping 
in her arms. 

Seating herself upon a doorstep she was passing, 
103 


104 


THE ALCHEMIST’S SECRET. 


Jane shifted the baby to a more comfortable position 
and leaned her head against the rough woodwork of 
the tenement house. How tired she was, how very 
tired ! Her head ached, her back ached, she ached all 
over. Day after day, she worked in the factory from 
early morning until nightfall. Night after night, she 
walked the street with Richard in her arms, not dar- 
ing to enter the house until father was safely sleeping. 
Of course it did not happen every night. Just once 
in a while father would come home sober and then 
there was no fear of harm to the baby or herself. 
Many a night, too, he did not come home at all, but on 
those occasions she and mother scarce dared to close 
an eye. They knew not at what moment he might 
return, possibly in even an uglier mood than usual. 
Mother was never afraid for herself. She could 
usually managed him, although there had been times 
when bad cuts and bruises bore testimony to the treat- 
ment to which she had been subjected. For Jane and 
little Richard, their only chance lay in keeping out of 
the way, so Jane would tramp the street, Richard in 
her arms, despite aches and pains and weariness. 

The child on the doorstep anxiously watched the 


THREE EVENINGS IN A LIFE. 105 


window across the way. Would the light never go 
out ? Father must be unusually bad to-night, and she 
was so tired. The day had been a hard one at the 
factory and every bone in her body ached. Well, 
there was one comfort; to-morrow would be Sunday 
and she could stay at home all day. To-morrow? 
To-day, rather, for midnight had already passed. She 
would have one long day to rest and help mother. 
She felt now as if she could sleep the whole day 
through. She would like to sleep for a week at least, 
and even then she would not be rested quite enough. 
There were moments of unusual fatigue and depression 
in which she could almost wish that she might fall 
asleep and sleep forever as the other little ones had 
done. Three of them there were, delicate, sickly little 
creatures, who had struggled for a time against the 
ills of human existence and then given up the unequal 
conflict. At times, she could almost find it in her 
heart to envy them were it not for mother and Richard, 
especially Richard. 

There, at last! The light was gone, the window 
in darkness, and it was safe for her to return to the 
tenement across the way. 


io6 


THE ALCHEMIST’S SECRET. 


IL 

The same street, the same tenement house, but 
grown even uglier and dingier with the passing of the 
years. In a small room on the second floor, Jane sits 
beside the bed on which her mother tosses in the 
delirium of fever. Her heart is slowly breaking as 
she listens to the moaning, insistent cry which issues 
from those parched lips. All through the days and 
nights of anxious watching, that cry has been ringing 
in her ears, the call for Richard, Richard, Richard.’^ 

That her mother is dying she knows full well, and 
how she longs for one loving glance, for one word of 
affection, to carry with her in the lonely years to come. 
But no look of recognition comes to the sightless eyes 
and no word escapes the lips save that never ceasing 
cry of “ Richard, Richard, Richard.” A white-capped 
nurse flits softly about, but Jane pays no heed to her. 
The doctor enters and hold whispered consultation 
with the nurse. Jane does not even glance at him. 
She is tired of hearing him say the same old thing 
time after time : ‘‘ While there is life, there is hope.” 
She knows there is no hope, though everything possible 


THREE EVENINGS IN A LIFE. 107 


has been done to save the precious life now ebbing so 
swiftly. Thank God, they are no longer poor as when 
she was a child. Her salary is a splendid one and she 
has been able to have the best advice, the best care 
possible, for her dying mother. No, they are no 
longer poor, but of what avail is money now? It 
cannot bring back the days that are gone, the happy 
days before Richard went away. And they were 
happy, then, so happy. 

After her father’s death, which had occurred while 
she was still a mere child, she and mother had devoted 
themselves to the task of caring for little Rich- 
ard. They toiled, they starved, they saved — all for 
Richard. They prayed and planned and hoped — for 
Richard. He must go to school, he must go to college, 
he must become a power in the world. For themselves, 
poor food, poor clothes, the old tenement were good 
enough, for every cent they saved meant so much the 
more for Richard when he should have come to man’s 
estate. And Richard ? Oh ! he had been well content 
to take all they offered him. He went to school, he 
went to college; only, somehow, the reports of his 
doings there were anything but encouraging. They 


io8 


THE ALCHEMIST’S SECRET. 


seemed to be merely a series of pranks and mischief, 
but the devoted mother was very ready to make allow- 
ances. The boy was young, he would grow steadier 
as he grew older. They must have patience with him 
for a few years yet. At times Jane doubted the 
wisdom of their course, and when the demands, not 
only upon their patience but upon their purse, became 
greater and greater, Jane had counseled removing him 
from college and setting him to work. Not so the 
mother. Her cry was ever : Patience, patience, and 

all will yet be well.” So they bore with him a while 
longer to their never ceasing sorrow. 

His escapades grew wilder, the reprimands of the 
faculty more severe. At last came the final prank, 
which had resulted in his disgrace and expulsion. Even 
then, she and mother was ready to forgive and had 
written him to come home. No answer from Richard 
had ever been received. Instead, came the news that 
the boy had disappeared, run away; the last seen of 
him was boarding a train for the West. All efforts 
at tracing him had proved futile, and to this day they 
knew not where he was. 

Mother had never smiled again but had drooped and 


THREE EVENINGS IN A LIFE. 109 


faded day by day. Time an again Jane had urged 
moving to more congenial surroundings, to a flat or 
cottage in the suburbs, to fresh air and sunshine. But 
no, mother would not have it so ; Richard might come 
back some day and how could he find them if they 
moved away from the old home in the tenement house ? 

Even now, when she is dying, her last thought is 
not for the girl beside her, the girl who has toiled so 
patiently, watched so faithfully, sacrificed all so 
generously, for mother and for Richard. Even in 
delirium, her thoughts are only for the absent one; her 
words, that insistent, heartrending cry for ** Richard, 
Richard, Richard.’^ Jane bows her head in anguish 
but whispers low : ‘‘ Thy will be done.” 

III. 

Long since, the factory whistle has sounded the 
signal for release from the day’s toil. The workers in 
the factory, a small army of men and women, boys 
and girls, poured forth from the doorways of the huge 
buildings, swarmed up the street, laughing and chatter- 
ing, and dispersed to their several homes. The buzz 
and jarring of the machinery have ceased and silence 


no 


THE ALCHEMIST’S SECRET. 


fills the place. Even the offices are deserted, with the 
exception of one from which issues the steady click, 
click, of a typewriter. 

Jane Horton, private secretary and confidential clerk 
to the millionaire president of the company, is a very 
busy as well as a very important individual. The 
sound of that whistle means release for the workers 
in the rooms above, the toilers at the machines where 
she herself labored so many years ago ; it means release 
for stenographers, bookkeepers, clerks, in the general 
office without; but for her, there yet remain many 
things to be attended to before she can take advantage 
of the half holiday and seek the seclusion of her small 
suburban home. Important letters must be written, 
private letters which cannot be entrusted to the care 
of an ordinary stenographer. For some time longer 
Jane’s typewriter clicks unceasingly, and it is nearly 
dusk before her task is finished and she is free to lock 
her office door and leave the building for the night. 

She walks rapidly along the darkening streets, sorry 
that she is so late. She fears Marie will have been 
watching for her all the afternoon and worrying per- 
haps, little Marie, the lame factory girl whom she has 


THREE EVENINGS IN A LIFE. in 


befriended, the girl with eyes so strangely like to 
Richard’s. The resemblance is startling at times, 
though Richard’s eyes were ever merry, ever dancing 
with fun and mischief, while Marie’s are grave and 
sweet and sad. Still, the likeness is there, and 
probably that is the reason that Jane has been so 
anxious to help this girl, scarce more than a child, who 
had appealed to her for aid. Marie was by no means 
the first to seek her assistance in time of need, for Miss 
Horton’s name stands for all that is kind and gracious 
and helpful in every department of the factory. The 
woman who has succeeded, who has worked her way 
up, step by step, to a position of trust and confidence, 
does not forget the time when she stood, as Marie does 
now, with her foot upon the lowest round of the 
ladder. She never forgets the days when she worked 
as they work, and is ever ready to extend a helping 
hand to those who need it. To her, then, Marie had 
come, as had so many others before her, in her hour 
of trial and distress. Hastening along the street, 
Jane smiles as she recalls the day Marie had first tapped 
upon her office door and, entering timidly, waited for 
permission to speak. Jane had been unusually busy 


II2 


THE ALCHEMIST’S SECRET. 


and frowned impatiently at the interruption. The 
eyes, so like to Richard’s, had quelled her anger and 
she listened to the girl’s story. 

It was Jackie was the trouble this time, Jackie who 
came next to her and who helped in the support of the 
family. He’d just broken his leg and was in the 
hospital and there was no telling when he would be out 
again. The twins were sick, too, and there were Nellie 
and Minnie and the little baby, and mother not strong 
enough to work even if she had time to leave the 
children. Father? Well, that’s just where Miss 
Horton’s help was needed. Father had worked here 
in the factory, out in the shipping-room, but they’d 
discharged him several weeks ago. Yes, father had 
been discharged before, many times before, and had 
, been taken back again. This time they would not let 
him come back though he had begged and pleaded and 
promised faithfully never to touch the drink again. 
No, no, father did not get drunk very often, only once 
in a while, and he was never cross or ugly. He was 
the kindest and best of fathers only he drank a little 
just once in a while. Wouldn’t Miss Horton please, 
please, say a word for father and get them to take him 


THREE EVENINGS IN A LIFE. 113 


back? Miss Horton hesitated for a moment, looked 
into the eyes so like Richard's, then promised that she 
would. 

She certainly kept her promise and said, not one 
word, but many, in her efforts to have Marie's father 
reinstated in his former position. The man was a 
stranger to her, she had never seen him, never even 
heard his name before, but for Marie's sake she pleaded 
his cause most earnestly. The same reply met her 
every turn : 

“ Not a better man in the place when he was sober, 
the very best worker we've got. But just when we're 
busiest and need him most, off he goes and gets drunk. 
Not so very often, oh! no, but always when he's 
needed most. We've forgiven him time again, but he's 
had his last chance. We'll not take him back." 

Jane had even appealed to the president himself, but 
the appeal was useless. He never interfered in such 
matters, left them entirely to the department heads. 

The eyes like Richard's filled with tears as Marie 
was told of the utter failure of all appeals. The pale 
face grew paler day by day and the thin figure drooped 
wearily. Jane had, more than once, offered pecuniary 


1 14 the ALCHEMIST’S SECRET. 

help, which had been gently but firmly refused. 
They’d manage somehow, Marie thought, until Jackie 
was well again and able to help, though it was hard 
to feed so many on just one girl’s pay. If they would 
only take father back, that was all the help she needed ; 
just for them to take father back. He’d not touched 
a drop now for six months and vowed he never would 
again. He’d taken the pledge and was making the 
First Fridays. He’d not missed one since he began 
five months ago, and oh ! if they’d only give him one 
more chance. That’s what father said himself, that’s 
all he wanted, just one more chance to make good. 
He meant it this time, too, Marie was quite sure of 
that. If they’d only give him that one chance he’d 
make the most of it. 

Jane Horton had promised to make one more 
attempt and she is now carrying to Marie the good 
news that her efforts have been crowned with success. 

Following the directions given her, she passes from 
the broad, well-lighted streets to smaller, darker ones. 
Finally she turns down a narrow, crooked alley and 
enters a tumble-down house at the farther end. Bad 
as was the tenement home of her early childhood, this 


THREE EVENINGS IN A LIFE. 115 


place is far worse, and a wave of pity fills Jane’s heart 
as she thinks of that delicate, patient child growing up 
in surroundings like these. Marie herself opens the 
door in response to Jane’s knock, her eyes anxiously 
asking the question her lips dare not utter. 

Good news, little one, good news,” cried Jane 
joyously, advancing into the room and taking in at a 
glance the terrible poverty of the place, the shabbiness 
of the woman laying the table for supper, and of the 
barefooted, ragged children who stare at her in open- 
mouthed astonishment. ‘‘ Where is your father, 
Marie ? Take me to him at once for I bring him what 
he asked for — one more chance to make good.” 

In answer to Marie’s call, the door leading into an 
adjoining room opens and a man steps forth. The 
light of the lamp shines full upon his face, and for one 
breathless moment they face each other in silence, the 
woman who has succeeded in life, the man who has 
failed, and to whom she brings one last chance of 
redeeming his failure. 

Despite the change of name and the greater changes 
wrought by the hand of time, she knows him at once. 
It is Richard, her brother. 


THE ELEVENTH HOUR. 


It was an ordinary tenement house of the poorest 
class, exactly like its neighbors, which lined both sides 
of the dingy street. The door was always open, more 
than half the time hanging by one hinge, the stairways 
were dark and crooked, the rooms sm.all and dirty. 
In a back kitchen on the topmost floor, a man sat, or 
rather huddled, in a chair drawn close to the stove. 
His eyes were closed and his head drooped wearily 
against the back of the chair. That last spell of cough- 
ing had been unusually severe and had left him weak 
and breathless. A plague on the cough, anyway. 
Why was it he could not get rid of it? The doctor 
from the dispensary, the district nurse, even Maggie, 
had assured him that with the coming of summer 
this cold of his would be better. Summer was here, 
though you would not think so to-day with this raw 
east wind and drizzling rain, and instead of being 
better he was worse, decidedly worse. Could it be 

ii6 


THE ELEVENTH HOUR. 


117 

that they were all wrong and Nancy alone was in the 
right? Nancy, who, of all that approached him, was 
the only one who dared to tell him the truth. The 
truth? No, it was a lie, a lie; he was not dying, 
he was going to be well and strong again as soon as 
he could shake this cold that had settled upon him 
Nancy was a meddlesome old woman. He had told 
her so not more than an hour ago and had sent her off 
about her business. He had been harsh to her and 
rude, and after all she was old and had probably 
meant to do him a kindness. But, then, he was not 
sorry; she’d not come bothering him any more now 
with her dismal croakings of death and eternity. 
Death? He defied it. Eternity? Time enough to 
think of that. 

He opened his eyes and they rested upon the chair 
which Nancy had occupied one hour ago, which she 
had occupied so frequently during the past few months. 
She had been almost a daily visitor since he and 
Maggie had been living in these wretched lodgings 
in “ Nancy’s Alley,” as it was called. Evidently, the 
old woman seemed to think the entire street was her 
personal property and that she was responsible for the 


ii8 THE ALCHEMIST’S SECRET. 

welfare of all the dwellers thereon. Well, he guessed 
he had taught her not to come meddling in his affairs. 
He hoped he had anyway. Dying? The idea of such 
a thing; how dared she tell him he was dying when 
everyone else fed him with the hope that he would be 
better to-morrow, next week, next month. Ah! yes, 
but to-morrow never came; or rather, when it did 
come, it was no longer to-morrow with its promise of 
renewed health. It was to-day, with the same disap- 
pointment, the same pains, the same racking cough, 
which he had endured on so many other to-days that 
had come and gone before it. 

Watching the chair she had so lately occupied, he 
could see once more the figure of Nancy, her bright 
eyes and cheery smile, and hear the nimble tongue 
which chattered so merrily or soothed so gently ac- 
cording to the needs of her listener. He could see the 
little, stooped figure in its ragged gown, the work- 
worn hands, the smooth, grey hair. He would miss 
her visits; yes, indeed, he would miss them sorely. 
But what right had she to go talking to him of death ? 
Still, she was old, she had been kind to him, and he 
had driven her away in anger. He had called her a 


THE ELEVENTH HOUR. 


119 

meddlesome busybody who went about poking and 
prying into other people’s affairs and had ordered her 
to leave the house and never enter it again. 

“ Pokin’ an’ pryin’ is it ? ” she had answered quietly 
as she made her way towards the door. He remem- 
bered now how difficult it had been for her to walk 
even on the level floor; what a task it must have been 
for her to climb those three long flights of stairs as 
she had been doing every day for these months past. 
‘‘ Pokin’ an’ pryin’ is it ? Maybe so, maybe so. But 
Nancy didn’t mean it that way, no, lad, indeed she 
didn’t. Nancy was thinkin’ of her own-boy lyin’ at 
rest out yonder with the green grass growin’ over 
him, her own boy that went the same way you’re a 
goin’ now. He’d be about the same age as you, too, 
an’ there’s the look on your face that I seen on his so 
often, the desperate, despairin’ look that it breaks my 
heart to see. I figured that if you was my boy, Pd be 
glad for some one to tell you the truth an’ try to bring 
you back to God before it’s too late. I’d figured, too, 
that most likely you had a mother somewheres. She 
may be still on the earth prayin’ for you an’ longin’ 
for you, same as I prayed an’ longed for my Danny 


120 


THE ALCHEMISTS SECRET. 


for so many years. She may be in heaven lookin’ 
down on us now, but wherever she is she’ll be glad to 
know that I tried to bring you back. It’s for her sake 
that I’m doing this, for the sake of your poor mother 
wherever she may be.” 

His mother! What memories that name conjured 
up! His mother who had kissed and blessed him as 
she closed her eyes forever so many, many years ago. 
He was still looking at the chair which Nancy had oc- 
cupied but he saw it not. He was a boy once more 
standing by his mother’s bedside, her soft, white hand 
in his, and was promising her — ah! how many prom- 
ises he had made holding that dear hand for the last 
time, and how readily he had broken those promises 
every one! 

His mind wandered on and he saw himself a boy at 
school, a youth at college, a grown man filling a posi- 
tion of trust in a large business concern. In those 
days, wherever he might turn, there was one figure 
standing out before all others, one friend, tried and 
true. When boys at school this friend had saved his 
life; when young men at college, it was to this friend’s 
continued help he owed any little success he may have 


THE ELEVENTH HOUR. 


I2I 


attained. After leaving college, his position was 
secured through the kindly offices of this same friend 
whose desk was next his own in the office in which 
they were employed. 

His gaze still rested on the vacant chair but he saw 
only a pretty little suburban cottage with flower 
garden and smooth green lawn and box-bordered 
gravel paths. Once upon a time that cottage was his, 
and the sweet-faced girl, who trod those paths so 
daintily, tripping to the gate to meet him on his re- 
turn in the evening, was his wife. Upstairs in the 
nursery their children slept, two fair little girls with 
their mother’s pretty eyes and dainty ways. All that 
had been his, once upon a time. 

He still watched that vacant chair but he saw only 
the day they discovered the loss of that money which 
had disappeared so mysteriously from the firm’s safe. 
Suspicion rested upon that one true friend of his, the 
friend to whom he owed all he was, all he had. There 
was not sufficient evidence to prove that he was the 
thief, but in the minds of his employers there was no 
doubt as to his guilt. The supposed delinquent was 
dismissed and the cloud of suspicion rested upon him 


122 


THE ALCHEMISTS SECRET. 


wherever he went thereafter. Only two people had 
known the truth, the man now sitting by the stove in 
the tenement house kitchen and the friend who had 
suffered in silence rather than betray him. They had 
never met again, and not long after the robbery, the 
man now sitting by the stove had heard of his friend’s 
death ; the physicians said it was typhoid, but he knew 
better. Disappointment, anxiety, heartbreak, were the 
real causes of his friend’s early taking off. 

He still gazed at the empty chair but he saw only 
the series of misfortunes that had befallen him since 
the day his friend died. He had launched into busi- 
ness on his own account; the result was dire disaster. 
His home was burned in the dead of night; they 
barely escaped with their lives. Everything was gone ; 
there was no insurance and ruin and despair con- 
fronted them. His children died suddenly of a 
malignant fever and the heartbroken mother had fol- 
lowed them to the grave within a few weeks. He was 
alone, all alone, and from that day to this had gone 
steadily downward until now he found himself in this 
dirty tenement depending for his daily bread upon the 
faded, ragged little woman who was now his wife. 


THE ELEVENTH HOUR. 


123 


Poor Maggie, how she irritated him at times and yet 
she had been a good faithful wife to him. But for 
her, they would not have even this miserable apology 
for a home. Yes, even Maggie, with her watery eyes 
and thin, unkempt hair, Maggie, who scrubbed floors 
for a living and could not write so much as her 
own name nor read the simplest child’s primer; 
even Maggie was far too good for the worn-out 
drunkard and gambler whom she tended so faith- 
fully. 

A light tap upon the door, but the man by the stove 
was too much occupied with those phantoms of the 
past to pay heed to it. The door opened quietly and 
a priest stepped into the room. The man’s gaze 
shifted from the vacant chair to the black-robed figure 
standing by the door and looking at him in puzzled 
amazement. Phantoms of the past ? Yes, indeed, and 
here was one more come to torment him and to mock 
at him. The two watched each other in silence for a 
moment. Then, the man crouching in his chair by the 
fire found voice at last : 

‘'What brings you here, you, of all men? Have 
you come to taunt me, to upbraid me, to delight your 


124 


THE ALCHEMIST’S SECRET. 


eyes with the sight of my misery? Have you come to 
laugh at me in my downfall ? ” 

“ Nay, friend,’’ returned the priest gently, ‘‘ none of 
those things has brought me to you to-day. I come 
only on a mission of mercy, to bring you peace and 
pardon.” 

‘‘ But how did you find me ; who sent you to me ? ” 
demanded the man by the fire. 

“ A little old woman, Nancy by name, told me there 
was one here sadly in need of the ministrations of a 
priest. I did not dream that I should find you/* 

You know me then; you remember me? ” 

“ I remember you perfectly and recognized you at 
once, though you have changed almost beyond recogni- 
tion.” 

“ You say you know me, but you do not, you do not. 
You may know who I am, but you don’t know what I 
am. You don’t know that I’m a thief. Yes, a thief, 
for it was I who took that money he was accused of 
stealing. Do you know that ? ” 

** I know it,” answered the priest calmly, ‘‘ and still 
I say I bring you peace and pardon.” 

‘‘ Perhaps you know, too, that I am a murderer, for 


THE ELEVENTH HOUR. 


125 


it was grief, heartbreak, which weakened him so that 
when disease attacked him he had not sufficient 
strength to combat the fever. Do you now that, you 
who talk to me so easily of peace and pardon? ’’ 

“ I know that, too, and it is in his name that I offer 
you forgiveness for your sins.’^ 

** You know all then? He told you? ” 

‘‘ He told me in the delirium of fever. He never 
knew he told; he died thinking he carried the secret 
with him to the grave. He was faithful even unto 
death.’’ 

‘‘ Faithful even unto death. And you, his brother, 
come to me now and, knowing all, dare to hold out 
to me the hope of forgiveness and of peace? ” and the 
man stared incredulously into the kind, pitying eyes 
bent upon him. 

** I, his brother, offer you now forgiveness of all 
your sins and peace which surpasseth all understand- 
ing.- 

The sick man was seized with a violent fit of cough- 
ing and when it had passed, he lay back in his chair 
exhausted, with closed eyes and white, pain-drawn 
face. The priest, wishing to give him a moment to 


126 


THE ALCHEMISTS SECRET. 


rest and recover his breath, walked to the window and 
looked out. In the field below more than a score of 
ragged men, women and children were scratching and 
digging among piles of ashes, eagerly searching for 
and gathering up the half-burned cinders; searching, 
too, in the forlorn hope of finding something of 
greater value that might have been thrown away by 
accident. The rain beat noisily on the window pane 
and the priest shivered as he looked at those scantily- 
clad little children, not one of whom could boast of 
shoes and stockings, and at the white heads and bent 
figures of old women on whose unprotected shoulders 
the rain fell so pitilessly. What mattered the in- 
clemency of the weather to them? Winter would be 
here by and by; they must gather in all the fuel possi- 
ble before it was upon them with its snow and sleet 
and icy blasts. In fact, even when winter came, many 
of these same litttle children and old women, even 
grown men who either could not find other work to do 
or did not care to seek it, many of these same people 
would be seen day after day scratching and digging in 
this same field of ashes. 

The priest turned from the window with a sigh of 


THE ELEVENTH HOUR. 


127 


pity for the miserable creatures below. His glance 
strayed over the untidy kitchen which bore all the 
marks of the most extreme poverty and he gave an- 
other sigh of pity for the man who had been brought 
so low in the last days of his life, the man whom he 
had known in the time of his success and pros- 
perity. 

He approached the chair beside the stove and the 
tired eyes opened slowly and looked at him. Unac- 
customed tears filled those eyes and the hard voice 
softened marvelously. 

“ Nancy was right,’’ that changed voice was saying. 
‘‘ I am dying. Father, you say you bring me forgive- 
ness in his name, forgiveness for the great wrong I 
did him. In his name, I will accept the gift. Father, 
I will confess my sins to’you and beg God's pardon for 
them.” 

Two hours later, when poor, tired Maggie, with 
aching arms and aching back, returned from her day’s 
work, she was surprised at the gentleness with which 
he greeted her. Never had he been so kind before: 
she was more accustomed to harsh words and even 
curses than kindness from him. She set about pre- 


128 


THE ALCHEMIST’S SECRET. 


paring their evening meal and he actually ate what 
she put before him without even once finding fault 
with the food or with her. She could not understand 
it and felt vaguely alarmed. 

Again the door opened and a face peered in anx- 
iously. It would look as if the owner of the face was 
fully prepared to slam the door and take to her heels 
at a second’s notice. The man in the chair by the 
stove smiled faintly and called: 

“ Come in, Nancy; it’s all right.” 

The little stooped figure sidled into the room but 
stood with her hand upon the door ready for flight at 
any moment. She could not trust her eyes and ears, 
she knew they must be deceiving her. 

“ Come in, Nancy,” the man repeated. Come in 
and sit down there in the chair you occupied this after« 
noon when you dared to tell me the truth that all 
others feared to tell. lYou’re a brave little woman, 
Nancy, and, thanks to you, all is well with me at last. 
As he said, he brought me forgiveness for my sins and 
peace which surpasseth all understanding. Thanks to 
you, Nancy, thanks to you.” 

“ Thanks to me is it, lad ? Not a bit of it, not a bit 


THE ELEVENTH HOUR. 


129 


of it. Thanks be to God ! ’’ ejaculated Nancy fer- 
vently. ' 

“ Thanks be to God ! whispered Maggie, as a tear 
rolled down her worn and faded cheek and splashed 
into the pan of water in which she was washing the 
supper dishes. Thanks be to God for bringin’ him 
back even at the eleventh hour ! 


THE STORY OF JULIE BENOIT. 


Julie leaned against the door of the room from 
which she had just been summoned. Her black eyes 
flashed defiance into the eyes of the woman watching 
her in sorrowful silence. 

Why you come here ? ” she cried. ‘‘ Why you not 
leave me alone? I not want to see you nor anyone. 
You no right to come here; you not my forewoman 
now. You dismiss me in disgrace a week ago, you 
and that superintendent in your factory over there. 
What you come for ; to punish me some more ? ” 

‘‘ My poor child,” returned the other gently, you 
must not hate me so. Believe me, I love you, Julie, 
and I’ve come here as your friend.” 

“ You a friend to me ; me, Julie Benoit who is sent 
away from the factory because I steal all that money ! 
No, no, I know better than that, you no friend to me, 
you despise me. All the girls point their finger at me, 

for I steal that money. But I give it all back, do I 
130 


THE STORY OF JULIE BENOIT. 131 


not.^ And the superintendent he say it is my first 
offense and he will not send me to prison. Oh yes! 
he is very kind. Julie have give back the money, 
Julie is forgiven, but she is a thief and cannot 
work with honest people. She must go, and with- 
out a reference. No one could recommend a thief. 
Well, Julie does go, so why you not let her 
alone? 

'‘Julie, Julie, listen to me,” cried the forewoman 
almost in despair. “ Believe it or not as you please, I 
have come here to-day to help you if I can. I have 
come because there was something in your face, a look 
in your eyes, that day you left us that has haunted me 
ever since. I have come because I feared you were 
I in trouble and were too proud to tell us so. Julie, 

I for twenty years I have been forewoman of my depart- 
S ment over there in the factory. Many, many girls 
have worked with me, new ones coming, old ones 
going all the time. Some have left for one reason, 
some for another, but never before has one gone from 
me in anger or disgrace. All my girls have loved me, 
Julie, and I loved them. Why was it I never could 
win you, win your trust and confidence. Was I not 


f 


132 THE ALCHEMIST’S SECRET. 

kind to you, child? I tried to be for I wanted your 
love and trust.” | 

The flashing eyes and angry face of the girl softened 
a little as the woman continued : 

“ I know you are not a bad girl, Julie. I know 
that you never before stole anything. I have been 
thinking of you all this week and worrying about you, 
for it must have been some great trouble which induced 
you to take that money. .Why did you take it, child ? 
Won’t you please tell me ? ” 

You ask me why I take it? Well, I will tell you. 
Do you know what is in that room just behind this 
very door I lean against ? It is my mother. She will 
never move again, never speak to me again; she is 
dead. Yes, she died last night but I not tell no one. 
If I tell, they will take her away and bury her I not 
know where. I have no money to bury her myself. 
Pretty soon I will have to tell, then they bury her in 
a pauper’s grave with other people poor like us. I not 
know where they put her; I never can go and kneel 
at her grave and whisper to her that I have not for- 
gotten. 

“ You want to know why I steal that money ? Well, 


THE STORY OF JULIE BENOIT. 133 


a week ago poor mother she is so very sick. They 
tell me she cannot live many days; but I think if only 
I have money I can save her yet. I can have doctors 
to see her, big doctors who will go to sick people only 
for very much money. I can buy her food and medicine 
and perhaps send her away to some place where the 
sun will shine for her, where she can breathe God's 
pure air. Why even strong people can scarce live 
in a place like this where the sunshine never come, 
where it is cold and damp all the time. How can the 
poor little mother hope to grow well again in such 
a place, without good food, often without a fire, the 
air not fit for anyone to breathe. I think of it all the 
time. I lie awake at night and think of it, it is before 
me all day at my work. Money, money, if only I 
have a little money, I can save my mother yet. Then 
the chance come, the money is there before me. I 
look at it, I take it. That is all. 

‘‘ You ask me why I steal that money. I steal it 
for her, my mother; to save her life. Yes, and for 
her, too, the blind grandmother, and for them," and 
she pointed to a very old woman sitting close to the 
stove and holding in her arms a whimpering child of 


134 


THE ALCHEMIST’S SECRET. 


four. At her side crouched two more children, some- 
what older, huddled together in a ragged shawl. They 
wore neither shoes nor stockings and the small feet 
were blue with cold. 

“ Oh, you poor child,’’ exclaimed the forewoman, 
her eyes filling with tears. “ Why did you not tell me 
a week ago instead of taking that money, for one 
wrong can never right another; why did you not tell 
me? We might not have been able to save your 
mother, but we could have helped you. Even after 
you took the money, if you had told me all, something 
might have been done for you. I wish you had told 
me, Julie, I wish you had told me.” 

The shocked grief of the woman’s face and voice 
had their effect upon the girl, and it was in a much 
more gentle tone that she continued: 

You can see for yourself how it is with us now, 
but we are not always like this. If you care to listen 
and will sit down, I tell you all about it. 

“ No, indeed, we are not always like this. I can 
remember when father is alive how happy we all are. 
He is a mason, good and steady, and he work for us 
all the time. We live in a pretty little flat, it is bright 


THE STORY OF JULIE BENOIT. 135 


and clean and mother keep it so and make everything 
look nice for us. She sing and she laugh and she 
look so pretty in those days. I go to school and 
Marie also, dear Marie who died one year ago. 
Antoine, too, he go to school with Marie and me. 
Lorraine there, she too little; she stay at home with 
mother and with grandmother. 

“ Well, we are all so happy until one day father is 
brought home to us. He is dead, killed at his work by 
a falling derrick. That same day poor little Baptiste, 
him there on grandmother’s lap, he come into this 
cruel world. Mother is sick, so very sick for a long 
time after. It is weeks and weeks before she can walk 
around again. By the time she does, the little money 
she had saved is all gone; there is not a cent in the 
house and the landlord puts us out into the street. 

‘‘ I am only twelve at the time but I go to work in 
a factory — not your factory, but one away off thq 
other side of the river. I have to walk long, long 
distance in the cold, dark morning, and walk back 
again at night, but I am happy for I earn money to 
help at home. Mother she go to work too, in a great 
steam laundry where she stand all day at a big machine. 


136 THE ALCHEMIST’S SECRET. 


She very thin and pale, and so tired at night she can 
hardly walk home. But she, too, is content; for she 
have work to do and work means money to buy food 
for the little ones and for the blind grandmother. 

‘‘We get along pretty well for almost three years. 
Then, just a year ago, the factory I work for shuts 
down. Times are hard, there is no more work for us, 
we must go. We do go. We try first one place, then 
another, to find work. It is the same story every- 
where, times are hard and there is no work for us. 

“ Then mother gets that dreadful cold. The 
laundry where she works is always so very hot. She 
come out at night into the cold air; her coat is thin 
for she cannot buy a warm one and she get a dreadful 
chill one night as she comes home. She cough all the 
time after that. It shake her nearly all to pieces; 
but she still go to her work till one day she fall beside 
her machine. They bring her home and we put her 
into bed and she never leave it again. 

“ What to do then we know not. One, two, three 
days pass; at last there is a day when grandmother 
and I eat nothing. We give the last scraps of bread to 
the children and spend the last two pennies on milk for 


THE STORY OF JULIE BENOIT. 137 


mother. There is nothing left for us. We not sleep 
that night ; we sit by the empty stove and we think all 
night. Grandmother is praying all the time ; she is, oh 
so good, that grandmother. She pray and she pray, 
and she tell me God is kind and good. He will show us 
a way. Me, I am not good like that. I say to her 
God cannot be kind and merciful, or he would not 
treat us so. What have we done that He punish us 
like that She say to me : 

‘ Hush, child, hush ; you very bad, very wicked. 
God is good and kind and loving. He not try us any 
more than we can bear; He send us help soon if we 
trust in Him.’ 

Next morning is cold, very cold; we have no fire 
and no food. I have been everywhere to look for 
work and find nothing. But I put on my hat to go 
out and try once more. Grandmother ask me what I 
do. I tell her I go again to look for work. She say : 
‘No, child, you stay here with your mother to-day; 
it is my turn now.’ 

“ She is old ; she is blind and I fear to have her go 
out alone, but she is firm and will go. She take her 
stick and she go out. She come back later with bread 


138 THE ALCHEMISTS SECRET. 


for the children and a little money to buy coal. I not 
ask her where she get it; I know. She beg it on the 
street. Every day she go out like that, and when she 
bring back food and money she not say one word and I 
not ask her where she get it ; I know. 

She keeps us from starving for a few weeks and 
then, at last, I find work in your factory. For a time, 
I am almost happy again, for now grandmother need 
beg no more; my pay will keep us in food and fire. 
Even mother seems better for a little while, and I 
think perhaps she will get well and we will all be 
happy onCe again. But mother is soon very, very 
sick, and I see her dying day by day and can do nothing 
to help her. 

‘ Then, that day last week, a party of ladies come 
to visit the factory. The wife of the superintendent 
is with them. She very handsome, very rich; she 
beautifully dressed. She stop near my table to take 
off her coat, the room is warm and the fur coat heavy. 
She lay her purse down on my table while she remove 
the garment; one of the ladies call to her and she 
go away, leaving the purse behind her on my table. 

'‘Mother is very sick that morning; she not sleep 


THE STORY OF JULIE BENIOT. 139 


all night, but cough, cough, cough. There is the purse 
before me. No one is looking; I pick it up and open 
it. It is filled with money, the money that may save 
my mother’s life. That lady will never miss it. I 
slip the purse inside my dress and go on with my 
work. I can hardly keep from screaming with joy I 
am so happy to think I have the money which is going 
to save my mother’s life. The ladies go away and I 
feel that I am safe; she has forget about her purse. 
I want to rush away at once, but I must stay at my 
work so no one will suspect. 

“ Presently the superintendent he come in and he 
talk to you and you look very grave. Then he say one 
of the ladies have left her purse on a table in this room. 
Will the girls be kind enough to stop work and search 
for it? He will give five dollars reward to the one 
who finds it. We all search but no purse is found, and 
he go away again. Pretty soon he come back and the 
lady with him. She look around for a few moments, 
then she walk straight over to my table. The superin- 
tendent ask is she sure, quite sure. She say she Is 
perfectly sure. She lay her purse on that table in 
order to remove her coat, then forget to take it up 


140 


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again when she go away; and she look very hard at 
me. 

The superintendent ask me if I have seen the 
purse and I say no. I suppose he know by my face that 
I am lying for he tell you to take me to the dressing- 
room and search. Then I know there is no hope for 
me; if you search you find the purse, so I take it out 
and hand it to him. He talk to me about my wicked- 
ness but I not answer him. He discharge me, but I 
not say one word. You talk to me, but I not speak to 
you either, I am too heartbroken, too despairing. My 
mother she will die now, she will surely die ; and grand- 
mother she will have to go out begging once again. 

‘‘ I come home and I tell them I am discharged. I 
not tell them why, for they very good and stealing is a 
sin. They be so shocked and sorry. I sit beside my 
mother, despair in my heart, and I watch her dying, 
dying, dying. 

‘‘ Her pain is all over now ; she leave me last night 
and she never come back again. I watch with her in 
there when you come. I watch with her some more 
when you go; then I must tell that she is gone, that 
she is dead, and they come and take her away,” and 


THE STORY OF JULIE BENIOT. 141 


she threw herself on the floor by the door of her 
mother’s room in a perfect agony of grief. 

In a moment the kind-hearted woman was on her 
knees beside the heartbroken girl, whom she gathered 
into her motherly arms, murmuring words of comfort 
all the while. Gradually the dreadful sobbing sub- 
sided, and after a time the girl was once more standing 
before that door she guarded so jealously. Seeing 
that she was her own calm self again, the forewoman 
said gently: 

My poor child, again I say that I wish you had 
told me a week ago. So much suffering would have 
been saved. However, this is no time for vain regrets, 
it is the time for action. I must leave you at once, 
Julie, but I will be back, and will, I hope, bring you 
good news. In the meantime do you say nothing to 
anyone about your mother. You will believe that I 
will help you? You will do as I say? ” 

“ You very good,” replied Julie simply, laying her 
hand in that of the forewoman ; ** when you want me, 
you find me there,” and she pointed to the door behind 
which her mother’s silent form was resting. 

Two days later, the forewoman, seated at her desk. 


142 


THE ALCHEMIST’S SECRET. 


was apparently absorbed in the newspaper she was 
reading while leisurely disposing of her noonday lunch. 
In reality she was covertly watching an excited group 
of girls on the other side of the room who were dis- 
cussing some matter of evident importance. Without 
doubt, something was wrong. The forewoman rather 
surmised what the trouble was and smiled behind the 
shelter of her newspaper. She knew these girls and 
was quite sure that the difficulty, whatever it was, 
would be brought to her for settlement. As she had 
said to Julie, she loved her girls, and they in turn loved 
and trusted her. 

In this instance she had not long to wait. Presently 
the girls cast aside napkins and lunch boxes and moved 
toward the corner of the room where their forewoman 
was waiting. She watched their approach in smiling 
silence. Slightly in advance of the others came a 
small, impetuous figure, a painfully thin, cross-eyed 
girl of fifteen, whose abundant crop of freckles had 
earned for her the sobriquet of Speckles.” She had 
answered to that name for so long now that she had 
almost forgotten she ever owned any other. She was 
impulsive, good-hearted, and a general favorite in spite 


THE STORY OF JULIE BENIOT. 143 


of her rather sharp little tongue. Rushing up to the 
forewoman’s desk, she said excitedly: 

“ Miss Merton, it can’t be true, what Louise has 
just been telling us, that you are going to let that 
horrid Julie Benoit come back again. You surely 
wouldn’t take her back, would you. Miss Merton? ” 
Yes, it is perfectly true,” replied the forewoman 
calmly. ‘‘Julie will return to us next Monday, 
and I hope all my girls will do everything they 
can to make her feel that we are glad to have her 
back.” 

“ But we’re not glad. We don’t want her back,” 
cried one girl. 

* 

“ Why it’s impossible after what she did,” added 
another. 

“ I, for one, wouldn’t work in the same room with 
a girl like that,” said a third, with a toss of her head. 
“ I wouldn’t dare leave any of my belongings out of 
my sight for a single instant.” 

“ That’s just the trouble,” chimed several all at 
once. “ We wouldn’t feel safe for a moment knowing 
there was a thief amongst us.” 

During this outburst the forewoman sat quietly 


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watching the indignant faces before her. Then she 
said very gravely: 

Girls, I think we all misjudged Julie, and really 
almost owe her an apology. I have asked her pardon, 
and though I do not expect you to do the same, I do 
ask you to receive her back with kindness.” 

‘‘Misjudged her! Apology!” gasped Speckles. 
“ She took that money, didn’t she ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“And a person who takes money that belongs to 
someone else is a thief, isn’t she?” 

“ Yes, certainly.” 

“ Well then, I say a thief is a thief, and I don’t 
see where any misjudging comes in,” and Speckles 
looked defiantly from one to another. 

A tall blonde whose thoughtful blue eyes had been 
studying the forewoman’s face, laid her hand on the 
excited girl’s arm, remarking gently: 

“ Let’s not judge too hastily. Speckles dear. I think 
Miss Merton has something to tell us. For my part 
I used to pity Julie, she seemed so weak and sickly 
and so terribly alone. She was with us but she was 
not one of us.” 


THE STORY OF JULIE BENIOT. 145 


‘‘ Pity your grandmother/’ cried Speckles the irre- 
pressible. If she was alone all the time, it was her 
own fault. She was a stuck-up old thing and wouldn’t 
make friends with any of us. If you’d speak to her 
she’d only stare at you with those fierce black eyes of 
hers and answer yes or no just as short and snappy as 
you please.” 

I doubt if we tried very hard, any of us, to win 
her friendship, the poor little thing. And she did seem 
so forlorn and lonely at times,” answered the blonde. 
‘‘ But there, girls, let’s all keep quiet if we can for I 
know Miss Merton has something to tell us.” 

“You are right, Louise, I have a little story to tell 
you, the story of Julie Benoit,” and she told them 
Julie’s story as she had heard it from Julie herself. In 
conclusion, she added : “ When I left that poor child 
beside her dead mother, I went at once to the superin- 
tendent and told him the whole story. You girls know 
how kind he is; many of you have had personal ex- 
perience of his charity. He called in his wife and 
together they planned to bury Julie’s mother as a 
Catholic should be buried, they to stand all the expense. 
They have also undertaken to see that the younger 


146 THE ALCHEMIST’S SECRET. 


children are sent to school and the grandmother prop- 
erly cared for, and Julie is to return to her place here 
on Monday. 

‘‘ I wish you could have seen her face when I went 
back to those two dreadful rooms in the alley where 
she lives and told her what the superintendent and his 
wife had said. She stared at me, amazed, incredulous ; 
then said slowly in an awed whisper : 

“‘They do all that for me, Julie Benoit the thief! 
You tell the lady it is I who steal her money but she 
forgive and have my mother buried like a Christian. 
She have her taken into church where the priest will 
bless her and pray over her. She have her buried 
where I can go and kneel beside her grave and tell 
her that I love her still and that I forget her never, no 
never. The lady do all that for me who steal her 
money. But she is good, she is kind to forgive me.’ 

“After a moment’s thought, she added: ‘You 
think God will forgive me too? I very bad, very 
wicked ; I say all those dreadful things about Him, but 
He will forgive me, is it not so? Grandmother say 
He good and kind. You think He will forgive me if 
I ask Him?’ 


THE STORY OF JULIE BENIOT. 147 


It was a very different Julie that I left that night; 
oh ! very different from the girl who met me with such 
fierceness earlier in the evening. Just as I was leav- 
ing, she said to me very humbly : ‘ The girls at the 

factory, you think they will forgive me also ? I very 
rude to them; I say I hate them all. You think they 
will forgive me?^ 

“ So now, my girls, your welcome to Julie on Mon- 
day morning will be the best answer to that question.’' 

‘‘Will we forgive her, the poor girl!” cried 
Speckles impulsively. “ You bet we will. If there’s 
any one here who won’t be kind to that poor little 
Julie, she’ll just have to reckon with me. I think it is 
we who should ask her to forgive us, for I must admit 
we were all rather hateful to her. Oh, I say, girls! 
I’ve just got an idea,” she continued. “ Here, Louise, 
just hand me one of those empty boxes from that 
shelf over your head. There you are. Now then, 
this is a hat and I pass it around to each one of you, so. 
I say to each one of you : ‘ Did you notice that poor 
Julie has been wearing a thin summer coat all this 
bitter winter weather? It used to make me shiver just 
to look at her. Did any of you notice that her shoes 


148 THE ALCHEMIST’S SECRET. 


were all broken through and even in rain or snow 
storms she never had any rubbers to wear over them ? ’ 
Suppose each one of us chip in a few pennies, we can 
all spare a little, and have Miss Merton give it to her 
to buy shoes or something for herself. Fll start with 
fifty cents. 

The box was passed from one to another, each con- 
tributing what she could, and each contribution mean- 
ing more or less of a sacrifice to the donor. In this 
way a goodly sum was collected and laid on Miss 
Merton’s table. 

There, girls,” said the triumphant Speckles. 
‘‘ That will show Julie whether we have forgiven her 
or not. And now, do you hear that musical whistle 
calling us back to our places? We’d better hustle for 
the machines will start up in a minute or two. 
Machines are like time and the tide, they wait for 
no man. Nor woman, either, not even for Julie 
Benoit,” and with a laugh, Speckles was off like the 
wind. 

As the girls departed, each to her own machine or 
work-table. Miss Merton looked after them, a tear in 
her eye and a smile upon her lips. 


THE STORY OF JULIE BENIOT. 149 


“ God bless my girls,” she said to herself. Their 
hearts are in the right place, everyone of them. I 
need have no fear of the welcome they will give my 
poor little Julie Benoit.” 


PETER. 


Peter was thinking. Not that it was an unusual 
event for Peter to think. Quite the contrary! To 
Peter himself it seemed that life was one continuous 
round of thinking and planning and worrying. It cer- 
tainly was for him, especially since the advent of the 
baby, that wonderful baby sister of his. Somehow 
things had not mattered so much before, when there 
was no one to be considered but himself. Now it was 
different, with his baby to be thought of and cared for. 
Peter was worried and anxious. He felt that a great 
responsibility rested upon his shoulders. They were 
young shoulders, too, far too young to be burdened 
with the cares and troubles of life. 

The winter wind came tearing down the street, sting- 
ing his face and piercing through his thin garments. 
Shivering, he turned up the collar of his worn 
and ragged coat and thrust his hands deep into the 
pockets. Then he hastened on with eyes on the ground 

150 


PETER. 


151 

and bent down head, for Peter was thinking'. A 
mighty problem confronted him, a problem which must 
be solved at once. 

He turned into the dirty, narrow alley in which he 
lived, opened the door of a tenement house, and, run- 
ning quickly up a flight of stairs, entered Mrs. Demp- 
say's kitchen. The savory odor of frying ham greeted 
his nostrils and reminded him that he had had nothing 
to eat since morning. Well, never mind that, he would 
have supper soon now, he and baby together. 

‘‘ Bless me, Peter, is that you home so early ? ** cried 
cheery Mrs. Dempsey turning around from the stove, 
frying-pan in one hand, a large fork in the other. 
“ You must have had good luck to-night to be back so 
early.'’ 

Peter caught up in his arms the pretty child who 
toddled across the floor and threw herself upon him 
with a shriek of delight. With a gravity befitting his 
great responsibility, he seated himself upon a nearby 
chair, holding the baby close to him and smoothing 
back the tangled yellow curls. 

“ Yes, Mrs. Dempsey, I had real good luck to-night. 
Was all sold out long afore the other fellers, then 


152 


THE ALCHEMIST’S SECRET. 


hustled right home to baby. I hope she wasn’t no 
bother to ye, Mrs. Dempsey.” 

“ Bother is it ? The darlin’, an’ she as quiet as a 
little lamb. It’s an angel she is entirely an’ ye’d think 
so yerself if ye could have seen the nice supper of 
bread and milk she ate along with my own young 
ones.” 

‘‘ Does angels eat bread and milk, Mrs. Dempsey? ” 
Peter asked the question in all sincerity. He had often 
wondered about angels and he really wanted to know. 

‘‘ Oh, I guess they does,” replied the good woman 
absently, too busy with her cooking to pay much heed 
to what Peter was saying. ‘‘ Coin’, Peter ? Wish ye 
could stay and have a bite yerself, but I suppose if that 
precious father of your’n come home and his supper 
warn’t ready he’d make it pretty hot for you, poor 
child. Well, good-night, Peter. Bring the baby back 
in the morning.” 

“ By the way, Peter,” she called after him just as he 
was closing the door. ‘‘ To-morrow’s Christmas day 
ye know. Don’t forget to drop into the church on yer 
way home and hear Mass, like a good boy.” 

Peter’s ideas on the subject of religion were very 


PETER. 


153 


vague. Mrs. Dempsey had told him he must always 
attend Mass on Sunday and reminded him of the fact 
every Saturday night when he would come to claim the 
baby. Perhaps Christmas was another sort of Sunday, 
thought Peter. To him Christmas had always meant 
a time when other boys and girls talked of nothing 
but Christmas trees and turkey and wonderful presents 
they had received. No one had ever given Peter any- 
thing. He wondered if Mrs. Dempsey would. He 
had not known Mrs. Dempsey last Christmas ; she came 
to the alley only a few months ago. Life had been 
somewhat easier for Peter since her coming for she 
helped so much in caring for baby while he was out. 
He wished Mrs. Dempsey would give baby something 
for Christmas. He had hoped to do so himself, but 
somehow he never could find a cent for anything except 
the absolute necessities of life. Sometimes he could 
do no more than provide bread and milk for the baby 
and go hungry himself. That was when father would 
beat him and take away the few pennies he was saving 
to buy food for the little sister and himself. 

With baby held carefully in his arms, Peter de- 
scended the two flights of stairs to his home in the 


154 


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cellar. As he pushed open the door of the room which 
served as kitchen and living room in the daytime and 
as sleeping apartment for himself and baby at night, 
the damp chill of the place struck him as it never had 
done before. Groping his way to the table he lighted 
the candle upon it. Then, after wrapping baby in his 
mother’s old shawl and depositing her upon their bed 
in the corner, he proceeded to make a fire in the cracked 
and rusty stove. Peter was only eleven, but the 
children of the slums are little men and women almost 
from their cradles, and Peter was really the man of the 
family. He it was who cared for the baby and pre- 
pared their frugal meals ; he it was who cried his papers 
upon the street in the cold darkness of the winter morn- 
ings, who ran errands all day for the grocer on the 
next corner and again in the evening sallied forth 
with his papers under his arm in order to procure food 
to keep the life in their bodies. If father ever earned 
any money but little of it was contributed to the family 
support. 

As Peter wrestled with the fire, which positively 
refused to kindle, he was still revolving in his mind the 
problem which troubled him. He had been thinking 


PETER. 


155 


of it all day, and the only thing he could decide was 
that something must be done at once, but what that 
something was to be he could not imagine. Things 
had been going from bad to worse lately, and after last 
night he would never know an easy moment while 
baby was under the same roof with father and mother. 
For himself he did not care. He had grown ac- 
customed to the beatings, to the drunken quarrels and 
fearful language; in fact, he had never known any- 
thing different. But last night father had tried to 
hurt baby. He might try again and perhaps next time 
no Peter would be at hand to save her. They were 
unusually bad last night, both father and mother; the 
child was frightened and had begun to whimper. 
Angered still further by the sound, the man had seized 
a stove-lifter and flung it straight at baby’s head. But 
Peter had already sprung between and the missile 
struck him full on the forehead, causing a wicked- 
looking bruise. He had lain stunned for a time, then 
crept into bed with baby and listened in terror as the 
quarrel between his father and mother progressed from 
words to blows. He had not minded these things 
before, but what would he do if father should ever 


156 THE ALCHEMIST’S SECRET. 


beat baby as he, Peter, had been beaten so many 
times? And Peter felt the time was coming when 
father would surely do it. Last night was but the 
beginning. 

A noise from the next room told him that mother 
must be waking from the drunken sleep in which she 
had lain for several hours. At any moment she might 
open that door and enter the kitchen, and her temper 
was always terrible when she would first awaken from 
those long sleeps which followed a carousal. In a few 
moments, too, father would come home. The fire 
refused to burn; so supper would not be ready, and 
with mother in a temper and no supper at hand, some- 
thing would surely happen. 

Peter looked at the sleeping baby and shuddered. 
For her sake he dared not face another night like last 
night. Yet, what could he do? A volley of impreca- 
tions from the next room decided him: he must take 
baby away from here and at once. Yes, he would take 
her away, but where, where could he go? Where in 
all the great city could he find a shelter for his baby on 
this cold winter night? If he did take her away it 
might be only to have her freeze to death on the street. 


PETER. 


157 


Well, they must go, anyway. No matter what 
happened to them later they must leave here at 
once. 

Rearranging the shawl so that part of it covered the 
golden head, he stooped and gathered the baby into his 
arms. Then it all came to him in a sudden flash of 
inspiration and he almost laughed aloud in his joy as he 
hurried from the room and out into the street. He 
knew exactly where to go and wondered why he had 
not thought of it before. How foolish he had been 
not to think of it at once ! 

One day last summer he had stood outside a tall iron 
railing and watched a crowd of happy children at play 
in the grounds which the railing enclosed. He could 
see it all now, the yard, the romping children and the 
great brick building on the other side of that railing 
through which he watched enviously. They were hav- 
ing such a good time, he did wish he might go in and 
join in the fun. But he could not spare the time, he 
had wasted too much already, and the grocer would 
scold him for being so long on the errand which had 
brought him into the neighborhood of the yard and the 
children. As he turned reluctantly away, two ladies 


158 THE ALCHEMISTS SECRET. 


passed and he heard one say in answer to a question 
from her companion : 

‘‘ That building? Why, that is St. Teresa’s Orphan- 
age, a home for poor children who have no parents or 
else have bad ones who neglect or ill treat them. The 
good sisters gather in all such needy children whom 
they can find, care for them, educate them and teach 
them a trade so that they may ” 

The rest Peter had not heard, but those few words, 
spoken by the passing lady on that day last summer, 
had suddenly recurred to his mind. “ St. Teresa’s 
Orphanage, a home for children with bad parents who 
neglect or ill treat them.” That was their case exactly, 
baby’s and his. To St. Teresa’s, then, they must go in 
search of a home. He was quite sure he could find it 
again. It was ever so far away, over on the other side 
of the city, but he remembered the way perfectly, and 
would have no difficulty in reaching the orphanage. 

For some time Peter trudged bravely along the city 
streets. It was quite dark now and lights streamed 
from the windows of shops and houses as he passed. 
Throngs of people hurried by anxious to escape from 
the cold night to the firesides of home. All these 


PETER. 


159 


people carried mysterious-looking parcels ; ‘‘ Christmas 
presents for some happy little boy or girl,” thought 
Peter. Twice he stopped to shift the baby from one 
shoulder to the other. He never knew before that she 
was so heavy; his half frozen little arms almost refused 
to carry their burden any longer. He was terribly 
tired, and he wondered why the lights were dancing so. 
They were turning round and round and made him so 
dizzy he could scarce see where he was going. He 
did not think, that day last summer, that the way was 
quite so long as this. Surely, he must have been walk- 
ing for hours and hours. Oh ! why was baby so heavy 
and why would those lights persist in dancing so ? 

He wondered if they could be lost and what would 
happen to them if they were. He was almost certain 
he had taken the right turnings every time, but he 
might have made a mistake. At that last corner he 
was not quite sure whether he should turn to the left or 
the right. If they were lost, what would become of 
them ? 

The lights were acting very strangely to-night ; they 
had stopped dancing now but were all turning black, 
and what was this funny feeling that was creeping over 


i6o 


THE ALCHEMIST’S SECRET. 


him ? He sat down hurriedly on some steps he was ^ 
passing and leaned his head against the railing for 
support. He felt baby slipping from his arms onto the 
step beside him but was powerless to hold her. Once 
more that funny feeling was creeping over him and he 
wondered if he could be dying. Mr. Dempsey’s Tim ' 
had died. Peter had gone upstairs to see him. They i 
had put him into a funny-looking white box that was 
nearly covered with flowers, and he looked so strange 
lying there all white and still among the blossoms. ■ 
The next day the white box, the flowers and poor little ^ 
Tim were carried away. The neighbors said Tim ’ 
was dead; Mrs. Dempsey said he had gone to heaven. ' 
Peter wondered if he died would anyone put him in a ! 
white box and cover him with flowers; if he died, ^ 
would he go to heaven and see Tim there ? 

Peter had often been very anxious as to what heaven i 
was like. He had asked Mrs. Dempsey. Her answer ’ 
had not been quite satisfactory, but then she could not 
know exactly since she had never been there. And 
the angels, what were they like? Again Mrs. Dempsey 
had been referred to and again the reply was most 
disappointing. Beautiful beings with wings? Why, ' 


PETER. 


i6i 


birds had wings and some of them were very beautiful. 
As for singing before the throne of God; well, Peter 
could not even guess what the throne of God meant. 

He guessed he must be dying; he felt dead already, 
all except his head. That would go soon and then he 
would see the angels he had wondered so much about. 
But if he died, what would become of baby? Who 
would look after his precious baby? That dreadful 
thought caused him to^ open his eyes suddenly. With 
a great effort he raised his head and the sight of the 
iron railing against which he was leaning made his 
heart bound with a sudden thrill of hope and put new 
life into the exhausted little frame. It was the railing 
I through which he had watched the children on that day 
last summer, and the steps on which he sat were the 
steps of St. Teresa’s Orphanage. He had taken the 
right turning after all and had reached his destination 
without knowing it. 

With difficulty. Peter got upon his feet, lifted the 
baby and essayed to drag himself up that long flight of 
steps. Panting, exhausted, he reached the top and 
laid his burden down at the threshold of that door 
which always opened so gladly to receive such waifs as 


i 62 


THE ALCHEMIST’S SECRET. 


he. In the darkness Peter felt around for the bell. 
Surely, there must be a bell somewhere. He must find 
it quickly for that dreadful feeling was creeping over 
him and he knew in another moment he would fall. 
Where was it ; oh ! why could he not find it ? At last 
the despairing fingers touched the button of an electric 
bell; they pressed it hard, and a loud peal rang 
through the hall inside. Then Peter sank down to 
the ground beside the baby and even his head went 
this time. 

A moment later (or so it seemed to Peter) he opened 
his eyes and saw bending over him the most beautiful 
face he had ever beheld. He knew now that he was 
in heaven was looking on the face of an angel. It was 
just what he should think an angel’s face ought to be, 
so sweet and kind and gentle, the soft eyes filled with 
heavenly love and pity. And there were the wings, too, 
all white and shining, but Mrs. Dempsey had neglected 
to mention that angels’ wings grew out of their heads. . 
Somehow, Peter had supposed their wings grew from 
their shoulders; he was sure Mrs. Dempsey had said 
so, He would like to send her a message and tell her 
how mistaken she had been. He wondered if he could. 


PETER. 


163 

He felt a gentle hand slip beneath his shoulders and 
raise him a little and the angel commenced to feed him 
with something warm and sweet upon a spoon. It 
tasted better than anything he had ever eaten before. 

Suddenly he thought of baby. What had happened 
to her? Was she in heaven too? He tried to ask 
the angel, but found he could not utter a word ; he was 
too weak and tired. The kind eyes watching him 
interpreted rightly the anxious look that crossed his 
face; they were well accustomed to divining the un- 
spoken troubles of worried little minds. The angel 
spoke and to Peter the voice sounded like heavenly 
music : 

“ You must not try to talk, dear. Just finish this 
gruel like a good boy and then go to sleep again. 
Your baby sister is quite safe, and is sleeping sweetly 
in her crib over in the little one’s dormitory. You shall 
see her in the morning if you are good now and do as 
I tell you.” 

As he finished the gruel his eyes closed wearily for 
a moment, and when he opened them again there were 
two angels leaning over him. The second was not 
nearly so lovely as the first, but her face, too, bore that 


i 64 the ALCHEMIST’S SECRET. 


same look of heavenly sweetness which Peter felt in- 
stinctively none but angels’ faces could wear. It was 
the look which older people than Peter have often 
marveled at ; the look one sees upon the faces of those 
who have died to the world and to themselves and 
given their entire being to God in a life of charity and 
self-sacrifice. 

The second angel laid her fingers on his wrist and 
seemed to be counting something as she kept her eyes 
on a small silver watch she held in her hand. Then 
she poured a spoonful of bright-colored liquid from a 
bottle, and, lifting his head, bade him swallow the 
medicine. Unquestioningly he obeyed, and as his head 
was laid back upon the pillow he felt himself slipping 
away into the land of oblivion. Just as consciousness 
was leaving him, he heard a voice, seemingly far away, 
saying : 

He will do very nicely now. Sister Agnes. It was 
simply a case of starvation and complete exhaustion.” 

Vaguely he wondered what she meant. 


GOD’S WAY. 


** We have reached the summit at last, Cecile ? The 
hill seemed unusually steep to-night and the way 
unusually long.” 

Yes, mother, we have reached the top at last and 
here is the rustic bench on which we usually sit and 
watch the sun go down behind those blue and misty 
hills in the distance.” 

“ Ah ! those hills, Cecile. How I have always loved 
them. To me this has ever seemed the fairest spot on 
earth, and the view from this hill just at sunset the 
most beautiful I have ever seen. It is ten long years 
since my eyes have beheld it, but in my mind I still see 
it all so clearly. Tell me it is all there, Cecile, just 
as it was on that evening so many, many years ago 
when I first looked upon its beauties. Your dear 
father had just brought me, a happy bride, here to his 
northern home. We walked up the hill together to 
watch the sun set and I thought then I had never seen a 

165 


i66 THE ALCHEMIST’S SECRET. 


lovelier view : the green fields of waving corn, and the j 
apple orchards all in blossom, sloping down gradually ' i 
to the river ; the river itself tumbling and tossing madly j 
over the waterfall far up there to the left, then swirling 
and eddying on for a space, only to grow calm once 
more quietly, steadily, resume its placid journey to the 
ocean. Beyond the river, those wonderful forests, 
dark, mysterious and silent. They rise and rise, > j 
higher, ever higher, and terminate at last in the blue ! 
and misty hills of which you were just speaking. I j 
love it all, Cecile, and I could not bear to think that i 
any part of it had changed with the advancing years. 
Tell me it is just the same ; tell me it is all there as it 
was so long ago.” 

“ Yes, mother dear,” answered the younger wo- 
man, ‘Ht is all there just as it has ever been; the j 
fields and the river, the foretss and the hills be- 
yond.” 

Cecile neglected to mention that the fields were now 
mere barren stubble and that the river was visible only ! 

I 

here and there as it peeped through between the many ^ 
buildings lining its banks ; immense buildings of factory 
and mill, smaller structures, cottages and tenement j 


GOD’S WAY. 


167 


houses occupied by the workers in factory and mill. 
She supposed the forests were still there but the day 
had been very sultry with scarce a breath of air stirring 
and a heavy pall of smoke from the huge chimneys 
hung over the valley, hiding everything which lay 
, beyond. Only the tops of the distant hills rose in 
‘ triumph above it. 

! ‘‘ I am glad to think it is all unchanged,” said the 

mother with a sigh of content. ‘‘ I know it is foolish 
to feel as I do about it, but it would be a real grief 
to me to think that my beautiful valley had been 
f sacrificed to the need or the greed of advancing civiliza- 
; tion.” 

I ‘‘ God has been very good to me, Cecile, and I thank 
i Him with all my heart for the blessings He has sent me 
, to compensate for that one dreadful calamity, your 
j dear father’s sudden death ten years ago and my long 
I illness and subsequent blindness. As I sat to-day in 
I my little garden listening to the twittering of the birds, 

I and inhaling the fragrance of my flowers, I was think- 
ing how peaceful and happy my life is and how grateful 
I should be. You know, dear, just occasionally I long 
to be able to see again, to see the birds and the flowers, 


i68 


THE ALCHEMISTS SECRET. 


to see the beautiful world around me. That is very 
wrong and wicked I know, and I chase the rebellious 
wish away by thinking of my many blessings, especially 
of you and my Philippe. You have both been my com- 
fort and consolation. By the way, dear, no letter has 
come from Philippe to-day ? ” 

No, mother, not yet.” 

‘‘ It is strange that we have not heard from him. 
This is the first time he has not written to me for my 
birthday.” 

“ But he did not forget you, mother. Are you not 
wearing his beautiful gift to you which arrived this 
morning? ” 

No, he did not forget,” replied the older woman, 
as her fingers strayed lovingly over the lace scarf rest- 
ing so lightly on her snow-white hair. “ My Philippe 
never forgets and that is why I worried just a little 
this morning when his usual birthday letter did not 
come. Then, this afternoon, a sudden idea occurred 
to me which made me very happy. Shall I tell you 
what it was, Cecile ? I am quite sure I have discovered 
the reason why Philippe did not write me for my 
birthday.” 


GOD’S WAY. 169 

It was well the blind eyes could not see the look of 
startled fear which flashed across Cecile’s face. 

‘‘ You have discovered why he did not write? she 
exclaimed, and her voice trembled slightly. 

The mother laughed happily. “ Yes, I am quite 
sure I have discovered the reason. I have a feeling, 
and I know it is a true feeling, that before my birthday 
is quite over Philippe will be here with us. He is 
coming, Cecile ; he is not far away at this very moment, 
and before the evening is over he will be with us.’’ 

Tears filled Cecile’s eyes but she rose quietly and 
said, trying to speak lightly : 

The night mist is rising from the river, mother 
dear. Had we not better turn our faces toward the 
east and home ? ” 

“ You are right, child, it will be as well for us to 
go home a little early to-night. I am feeling unac- 
countably weary though very, very happy. It will be 
best for me to go home and rest a little before the even- 
ing train arrives bringing my Philippe back to me.” 

Cecile said nothing, but very gently, very tenderly 
guided the blind mother’s steps as they wended their 
way homeward in the sweet summer twilight. 


170 


THE ALCHEMIST’S SECRET. 


Half an hour later Cecile paced restlessly up and 
down the broad veranda of her home. She had left 
her mother sleeping on the couch in her pretty sitting- 
room upstairs and could now face the problems and 
difficulties which confronted her. In her mind she 
reviewed the years that had come and gone since that 
sad night when her dying father had whispered almost 
with his last breath : 

“Your mother, Cecile; I trust her to you. Take 
care of her for me when I am no longer here to watch 
over her myself. Promise me you will shield her from 
every worry, that you will stand between her and all 
troubles as I have always done.” 

The girl had promised and right faithfully had she 
kept her word, but at what a cost to herself ! She was 
thinking now of her promise and of how she had kept 
it. She was thinking, too, of her mother’s serious ill- 
ness which had followed that night, an illness from 
which she had recovered, it is true, but which left her 
blind for life. What a terrible calamity her mother’s 
blindness had appeared to be at that time, and yet 
there came a day, that dreadful day two years ago, 
when she had thanked God on her knees for the afflic- , 


GOD’S WAY. 


171 

tion which enabled her to conceal the trouble which 
had come upon them. 

Once more she lived through that day two years 
ago, the day when those awful letters had come, one 
from Philippe, one from the lawyers. She had read 
them at first without comprehending their meaning. 
Then as the truth began to dawn upon her, she cried to 
herself that it could not be true, it could not be. 
There was some terrible mistake somewhere. But 
there it was before her in black and white; Philippe’s 
own confession, the lawyers’ letter confirming all the 
facts. They were ruined, penniless, and Philippe had 
done this thing; Philippe, her tall handsome brother, 
the pride and darling of their mother’s heart. But 
worse than poverty, worse than ruin faced them. 
Philippe was a disgraced man, sentenced to jail for 
fifteen years. 

It was an old, old story; she had heard of such 
cases before but paid little heed to them. Now it was 
Philippe, her brother, and oh! how different it all 
seemed. It was simply the story of an ambitious 
young man, making his way in the world, winning 
name and fame among the ablest financiers of the 


172 


THE ALCHEMIST’S SECRET. 


Western city in which he had elected to live his life. 
It was simply the story of one who had much and 
who wanted more, who strained every nerve to win 
in the great game he was playing, the game of money- 
getting. It was the story of one who risked all in 
one grand final coup, who risked all and lost all. And 
what was risked and lost was not his alone ; everything 
belonging to his mother and sister had gone too. 
Worse still, he had made use of money which was not 
theirs, funds of the bank of which he was treasurer. 
Of course, he had only borrowed them, he had been 
so sure of success, and he intended replacing the 
money in a few days. He had reasoned as so many 
men before him had reasoned, as men will continue 
to reason as long as this world shall be. 

Such had been the trial which faced Cecile that 
day two years ago. Her one thought had been that 
mother must never know; her heart had always been 
weak and the shock would kill her, simply kill her. 
Words her mother had once spoken to her returned to 
her mind as she had finished reading those letters. 
The remark had been caused by some little act of 
thoughtfulness on Philippe’s part, some little gift he 


GOD’S WAY. 


173 


had sent her, for Philippe had always been careful to 
remember all the little household feast days with 
beautiful and often costly gifts. 

‘‘ Cecile,” her mother had said, you have both 
been good children to me, you and Philippe, good and 
kind and thoughtful. I think it would break my heart 
if my children should ever forget me, ever cease to 
love me. I can imagine but one thing worse, to have 
them forget their God, to know that they had com- 
mitted any grievous wrong. I have sometimes heard 
of mothers whose sons have been led astray into ways 
of wickedness and proved a disgrace to themselves 
and to their families, and I have said to myself: 
‘ Poor woman, how can she bear it, how can she go on 
living knowing what her boy has become? It would 
kill me, I know it would. Thank God, my Philippe is 
a good boy, brave and upright like his father; I shall 
never have cause to worry about him.’ ” 

Those words kept ringing through Cecile’s brain as 
she had read the letters over and over again, and she 
had determined then and there, at all costs, her mother 
should never know. But how was she going to con- 
ceal the fact of their poverty, of their absolute ruin? 


174 


THE ALCHEMIST’S SECRET. 


They had always lived in comfort and where was she 
to find the money to supply their daily needs ? Since 
her father’s death and her mother’s affliction, they had 
lived in the utmost seclusion. The few friends of her 
earlier life had drifted away one by one and there was 
no one to whom she could turn for help or advice in her 
hour of need. She must manage alone somehow, she 
and faithful black Mandy to whom her mother was 
still the ‘‘ li’l Missy ” of long years ago, the I’il 
Missy ” of the happy days on the southern plantation. 

For two years they had succeeded, but by what sac- 
rifices to themselves no one would ever know. Many 
a time they had been reduced almost to the verge of 
starvation in order to provide for the blind mother the 
little delicacies to which she had been accustomed. 
Gradually, articles of furniture disappeared from their 
accustomed places; costly pieces of bric-a-brac, rare old 
china, everything of value which Cecile thought her 
mother would not be likely to miss. Cecile’s own apart- 
ment had been reduced to four walls, a bare floor, one 
chair and the bed upon which she slept. The mother’s 
rooms and Philippe’s alone remained untouched. 

Then Cecile found employment in the office of one 


GOD’S WAY. 


175 


of those new factories which had recently been erected 
over there beyond the town. This step had been the 
cause of the first disagreement between her mother 
and herself. 

Why, Cecile, what do you mean ? ” the poor 
mother had gasped in her utter bewilderment when 
informed of her daughter’s intention. “ Surely, I 
misunderstood what you just said. Bookkeeper in the 
office of a factory! Earn your own living! What 
are you talking about! What strange jest is this, 
my dear? For you certainly cannot be in ear- 
nest.” 

‘‘ Indeed I am not jesting, mother dear, but am very 
much in earnest. I really want to earn money of my 
own, and shall be so much happier if I have a regular 
occupation. And you want me to be happy, do you 
not?” 

‘‘ I cannot understand you at all, Cecile. I really 
cannot. In my youth, we of the south considered it 
a disgrace for a young lady to even dream of earning 
her living. Your father left us plenty of money. I 
do not know just how it was invested, for I never 
cared to trouble my head about money matters. I 


176 THE ALCHEMIST’S SECRET. 


preferred to leave all that to you and the lawyers. 
Still, I know my income is quite sufficient for our 
wants. Even if we should lose our money, there is 
Philippe to provide for us. He would agree with me, 
I know. He would never, never allow his sister to 
work for a living.” 

Of course Cecile had persisted in her resolution, 
and it grieved her to feel that her mother had never 
become reconciled to what she considered a mere 
whim. . , ' ^ 

Letters from Philippe came at occasional intervals, 
letters which were carefully edited before she read 
them aloud to her mother. Gifts from Philippe came 
too, just as they had always done, but now each gift 
meant some added sacrifice for poor Cecile. Her 
very last bit of jewelry, a gift from her father on the 
Christmas before he died, had been sold to purchase 
the lace scarf which had come that morning in 
Philippe^s name. 

Of all this Cecile was thinking as she paced the 
veranda that summer night. It had all been very 
hard to bear but it was as nothing compared with that 
^last blow which had fallen two nights ago. 


GOD’S WAY. 


177 


She had been to the town for necessary supplies and 
was returning rather late in the evening. The road 
was lonely, deserted, and she could not suppress the 
cry of fright which rose to her lips as a man sprang 
from a little thicket which she was passing and stood 
directly before her, barring her path. Her second cry 
was one, not of fear, but of startled recognition. The 
man was Philippe, no longer her handsome Philippe, 
but a ragged, wild-eyed, desperate man. His story 
was told in a few words. He had grown restive under 
the confinement of prison life, then frantic, simply 
frantic, and had made up his mind to escape. How, 
he did not know, but he schemed and planned and 
watched his chance and finally succeeded in getting 
away. He had managed to make his way to her, and 
now she must give him money to enable him to get out 
of the country. 

Money ? Where was she to find money to give him ? 

“ But you must, Cecile ; you must give me every 
cent you can lay hands on,” he had cried savagely. 

They are after me, I tell you, and if I am taken back 
it will be to answer to a charge of murder. Of course, 
I didn’t mean it, you understand. One of the guards 


178 THE ALCHEMISTS SECRET. 


was in my way, and — well, there’s one guard less in 
the world, that’s all.” 

He had come to the house late that night and she 
had given him food, some of his own clothes which 
still hung in his room and which the mother had never 
allowed anyone to touch, and all the money she ‘‘ could 
lay hands on.” It was not much but it was every 
cent she had. She had heard nothing from him since, 
and the suspense of the last two days had been agoniz- 
ing, the alternate hopes and fears, the wondering, 
wondering where he was, what was happening to him 
at that very moment. 

The click of the garden gate and a footstep upon 
the gravel walk caused her to turn hastily and descend 
the veranda steps. At first, she thought it was 
Philippe come back to her, but a second glance showed 
that the figure approaching through the dusk was that 
of good Father Anselm, her parish priest. He was 
a young man, only recently appointed to the town, but 
he knew her story and had frequently helped her with 
kindly advice and sympathy. Her heart stood still as 
she watched his approach. Something in his manner, 
something in his face seen dimly through the gathering 


GOD’S WAY. 


179 


darkness, told her that he was the bearer of evil 
tidings. 

“ What is it, Father? ” she asked tremulously. Is 
it that they have taken him ? ” 

“ Yes, my child, they have taken him. They are 
bringing him here.” 

“ Bringing him here ! But why, why should they 
bring him here? ” A sudden dreadful thought flashed 
through her mind. ‘‘ Father, you have not told me 
all; there is something else.” 

‘‘ My poor child, there is something else to tell you.” 

“ You need not tell it. Father, I know. They have 
taken him, but not — alive. My poor Philippe is gone, 
dead. Tell me how it happened. Father, will you 
please ?, ” 

The girl’s unnatural calm was more pitiful than 
any outburst of grief could have been, and an im- 
I measurable compassion spoke in the priest’s voice as 
he told the story of Philippe’s death. 

“ He was hiding in the deserted hut in Planter’s 
Wood (you know the spot, Cecile) and they discovered 
his place of concealment. They had been following 
after him for days but he thought he would be safe 


i8o 


THE ALCHEMIST’S SECRET. 


there and could come out at night and procure food 
from you. There was a short, sharp struggle in 
which he received a mortal wound. Doctors were 
sent for; I, too, was summoned. Thank God, he was 
conscious up to the very last and I arrived in time to 
reconcile him with the Master whose love he had out- 
raged, whose commands he had broken. His end was 
very quiet and peaceful, he simply closed his eyes and 
fell asleep as a little baby might. 

But we must not stand here talking, my child. We 
have a duty to perform, you and I, and we must be 
brave and perform that duty at once, difficult though 
it may be. Where is your mother, Cecile? She will 
have to be told before — before they arrive. I came on 
ahead for that very purpose.” 

We cannot tell her. Father, we cannot. It will 
kill her.” 

‘‘We must tell her; it will be impossible to hide it. 
Take me to her and we will tell her together. God 
will be with us and will help us, my child.” 

“ Oh ! if God would only spare her, if He would 
only spare her ! If He would only open a way so we 
need not tell her ! ” 


GOD’S WAY. 


i8i 


Her brain was in a whirl as she mounted the stairs ; 
she was stunned, broken. Of one thing only was 
she perfectly conscious. Philippe was coming and his 
mother must be awakened. That mother’s last words 
as she had closed her eyes were : 

‘‘ I am strangely weary, Cecile, weary and very 
drowsy. I think I shall sleep a little, but be sure and 
wake me when Philippe comes.” 

Wake her when Philippe comes! Yes, for Philippe 
is coming and his mother must be wakened. 

They stood beside the couch and looked down upon 
the sleeping woman. How quietly she rested there, 
how still she was and peaceful! But how very still 
she was, and what was that scarcely palpable shadow 
resting on the sweet, calm face? Was it only 
a shade cast by the lamp which Cecile had brought 
in and placed upon a table behind them, or was 
it ? 

With a cry of alarm, the girl fell on her knees and 
caught frantically at her mother’s hand. It lay in hers 
absolutely passive and cold, so cold. The priest raised 
the lamp till the light shone full upon the face of the 
sleeper. Sleeping she was indeed, the last long sleep 


THE ALCHEMIST’S SECRET. 


182 

from which not they, not Philippe, not anyone could 
waken her. 

Father Anselm laid his hand on the head of the 
stricken girl and said gently : 

‘‘A moment ago, my child, you prayed that God 
might spare her. He had granted your prayer even 
before it was uttered. We need not tell her now for 
she has learned it all from One who could tell it far 
more gently, far more mercifully than we could.” 

The sound of shuffling steps, as of men who carried 
a heavy burden, came up to them from the gravel walk 
below. 

Requiescant in pace,” whispered the priest. 

Cecile knelt as if turned to stone. Mechanically, she 
listened to the voice of the priest reciting the De 
Profundis; she listened to the call of the crickets 
shrilling through the summer night without; she 
listened to the heart-breaking sobs of faithful black 
Mandy crouching on the floor by the side of her “ li’l 
Missy ; ” she listened to those shuffling footsteps as 
they entered the house, slowly mounted the staircase 
and paused at the door of what had once been Philippe’s 


room. 


GOD’S WAY. 


183 


Yet again the priest’s voice recited : 

“ Requiescant in pace.” 

And this time, Cecile, laying her cheek upon the 
dear cold hand she held in hers, responded brokenly: 
‘‘ Amen.” 


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